


triumphus

by queenofglass



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-04-20
Updated: 2012-08-10
Packaged: 2017-11-04 00:18:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 26,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/387550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofglass/pseuds/queenofglass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The most popular victor in Panem is back for his Victory Tour. Finnick Odair visits the districts, smiles for cameras, and signs a deal with the devil. Sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/290399/chapters/464502">The Boy with the Trident</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_Crash_.

I wake with a start, the sheets clutched tightly in my fist. Mere moments ago, I was sure . . . I was _sure_ I was running for the Cornucopia. That crash I heard . . . that had been the gong. _My only problem is time. I need enough of it to grab what I need and escape_.

It takes a minute for me to calm down. A few deep breaths here and there. I find myself repeating information any sane person would already know. My name. My district. My title.

Finnick Odair. District 4. Victor of the Sixty-Fifth Hunger Games.

It’s silly, but I find it seems to work. I let my eyes scan the darkened room, searching for the source of the noise. Slowly, so not to wake Owen, I slide out of bed.

That crash had actually been the window, blown open by fierce wind. Outside, a storm rages, stirring up the winter sea. In the distance, I can see the old lighthouse, silhouetted against the sky. Lightning strikes, filling the entire bay with a purple light.

Unsettled, I close the rattling window. I want to go back to bed, but I know that will never happen. Old instincts, I guess. One morning in the arena, I woke to find a snake prepared to make a meal out of me. Since then, I’ve had a hard time returning to sleep once I’m up.

I move around the room quietly, searching for clothes. I’m careful not to wake Owen, who gets very crabby in the morning. He mumbles something about seahorses and rolls over. I smile.

My room in the Victor’s Village is fit for a king. Though it’s everything I could ever need in a bedroom, I’ve made a habit of sneaking back into my old house to sleep. It’s familiar and comfortable, two qualities that make the Hunger Games seem like a distant memory.

Owen climbs into the bed when he thinks I’m sleeping. I don’t have the heart to tell him to leave. Truthfully, I like to keep him close. He’s become a brother in my eyes, much more than a nephew.

In the weeks after my victory in the Games, I had a hard time readjusting. It became clear that normalcy was a long way off. I still had nightmares; people frequently stopped to talk to me in the street, demanding details of my win.

I tried going back to school when summer ended, only weeks after returning home. To my disappointment, it didn’t work out. The attention I received while in the streets was tripled behind the school walls. I found myself sleeping in class, at lunch, or at any opportunity, just to escape the endless round of questions.

At last, I made the decision to quit. I already knew everything about my trade. My Capitol pension, installed a mere four days after I returned, would cover any needs that my fishing couldn’t provide.

Still, I tried to establish a stable routine. Mags says that repetition helps. Every morning, I wake up with Owen, then walk him to school after breakfast. With the new flow of wealth, my father can afford to sleep in. When I return, the two of us take the boat out for a few hours, fishing for the day’s catch. Dad jokes that sales have been through the roof; apparently everyone wants the victor’s fish.

Every Wednesday, I hike up the hill to meet Mags for dinner. Her home in the Village shows signs of wear, which I like. It’s not new and crisp like mine. She lives alone; her family has branched off to live in other parts of the district. Besides me, her grandnephew, Matthew Harper, is her most frequent visitor. I suspect he’s been told to visit her, but I don’t say anything. She tries to hide it, but I can tell she’s lonely. Sometimes I forget that she’s a victor, too.

I find other ways to fill up my free time. When the adults in my family—sister, aunt, or uncle—need someone to mind the kids, I volunteer. My cousins adore me, and it’s amazing how far a piece of chocolate will get you with a child. Some of the guys (Grant, mostly) accuse me of losing my edge, but I don’t mind. I’ll find it soon enough—my Victory Tour is fast approaching.

Two months after my win, Septima swept through District 4, with an entourage of cameras in her wake. Every victor is supposed to have a talent, something that can be recorded, edited, and broadcasted with my televised tour.

I don’t think I have a talent, but my escort was in luck. At the time, my cousins and I were in the process of building a dock for my new boat. She insisted that I talk about it for the camera (sans shirt, of course) while Grant and the others worked in the background.

The boat had been a bit of an impulse buy. Victors are free to do what we want with our wealth. When my father’s boat was repaired, when my sisters were happy with their new clothes, and when Owen took to his shiny harmonica, I found I still had an egregious amount of wealth. So, like any normal youth would do, I spent it on something for myself.

I named the boat _Victoria_. I got the inspiration from Mathias. He had been my stylist for the Games, and sent over a number of his books. The two of us had formed an unlikely friendship, and sensing my interest in his inspirations, he passed their ownership onto me. When burdened with nightmares, I read stories by lamplight. Stories of men and gods, magic and mystery.

" _Victoria_ is the spirit of victory,” I remember saying, though I didn’t elaborate any further on the subject. While my _Neptune, god of the sea_ persona won me sponsors, my team and I have agreed that we need to take care in these matters. God and religion do not exist in Panem; such a thing suggests that there is something more powerful than the Capitol, and there isn’t.

I’ll just be relieved when this is all over. I figure that mentorship is still in the distant future for me. I can live a normal life when my tour is complete.

I finish dressing and tuck the covers tightly around Owen. Mathias and my prep team will be arriving today, prepared to make me over for the tour. I’ll travel to each district, accepting their congratulations and secret resentment. I’ve been dreading this for weeks, but the show must go on, as Septima would say.

I rummage around in the kitchen until I find three apples. They aren’t native to 4, but Parcel Day was two days past, so they probably came from another district. They really are a treat; I bite into one and stuff the other two in my pocket for later. With my ratty hat securely over my ears, I set off.

The storm is fast approaching, but I know it will lose steam by the time it reaches the shore. The wind is so strong that I almost fly off the hill as I descend it. It howls in my ear, but the commotion of town drowns it out eventually. A few people wave at me, knowing that I ship off in several hours. I wave back, still munching on my apple.

Under the awning parallel to the station, I shake off the water from my coat. It’s big and bulky, and the zipper is broken. I know the prep team will hate it, which is one of the reasons why I chose to put it on.

“Hey, Finnick.”

Aiden and Briana, schoolmates of mine, stop to say hello. They’re both eighteen and one of those couples that took _all_ of eternity to realize the mutual attraction between them. Briana is good friends with a cousin of mine, Cassandra.

“Hey,” I say, then offer them pair the other two apples. They thank me and I invite the two to share my bench. While they eat, I toss my apple core into the garbage, brooding over the incoming interviews. It’s been months since I’ve worn the Capitol persona; I keep looking for it, like an old sock that’s gone missing.

“What are you two doing up this early?” I finally ask.

Briana turns scarlet; Aiden clears his throat. “Um, we were applying for a marriage license.”

I beam, pleased there’s something to talk about other than my upcoming journey. Weddings, especially 4’s celebrations, are a fun subject. “Well, congratulations!”

We go back and forth about it, which provides a good distraction. Though, too soon, the conversation turns toward me.

“My prep team arrives today,” I mumble. “For the Victory Tour.”

On cue, bells start ringing; whistles scream. The train will be arriving soon. Frowning, I pull the hat off my head and shove it in my pocket. Need the team to recognize me, obviously.

“Are they as bad as Septima?” Briana pipes up. I didn’t realize they had risen with me.

“Worse,” I say, smiling wryly. Although my prep team is Capitol through and through, they are nothing more than foolish gulls, squawking and cawing. Irritating, perhaps. Endearing most of the time.

A few more schoolmates join us, but I wave off their greetings. While Briana and Aiden chat with them, I wait for the train to arrive, pacing.

Steam hisses and voices call over the intercom. I see the gray slug of the train slide into the station, the wheels groaning. Dimly, I pick up the Capitol accent, though it’s soon lost in the light rain and bustle of the platform.

Their bright clothes are the first indicator of being foreign. My prep team flounces out of one car, pulling sunglasses and hats off to examine the facilities. Whatever test they run against 4, the district seems to pass. While an employee directs them to the exit, I wonder if I can wiggle out of babysitting duty. They’ll find their own way, right? Unfortunately for me, Svein catches my eye and waves.

_“Finnick!”_

Ursula is nothing more than a green-colored bullet. I barely form a _hello_ before she’s grabbed my jacket, shoved me backwards, and pressed her mouth to mine. My back slams against the wall. I push her off me after a minute, gasping. She giggles and touches her lipstick, checking for smudges.

“Let the boy breathe, Ursula,” Halla scolds, before winking at me. “We hardly recognized you!”

My eyes flicker to my classmates; two of them are snickering. I pull the hat over my reddened cheeks and stammer out a reply. The trio explains that Mathias will be along shortly, and I should lead the way to the Victor’s Village. Still blushing, I turn on my heel and exit the station.

The preps attract a lot of attention on the way home. If it wasn’t for the vivid colors, loud voices, or all around strange appearance (Svein did end up getting body gems—his face and neck are spotted with diamonds), it would be their behavior. They prance around behind me, causing a real scene, and complaining of the weather. I almost break their obnoxious umbrella in half, but relent when they insist it will protect their hairdos.

Did I really call them endearing? I can’t remember why.

The storm is already starting to let up, but to my team, it’s the end of the world. I forgive their embarrassing arrival when I see how miserable they look in the rain. When we finally reach my new home, they push past me to get inside.

Phoebe is the only one awake; I wonder if she heard me leave. She’s perceptive in that way. I see her eyes widen when she catches sight of the prep team. If they seemed ridiculous on televison, then they are larger-than-life in person.

“You must be Phoebe! Finnick told us all about you!”

My sister receives their hugs and kisses with more grace than I ever did. When she offers to make them coffee, they almost fall to the ground with gratitude.

I can feel that fondness of the preps come rushing back. They _are_ annoying, but I never imagined they’d be so warm with my family. Maybe I’ve been too hard on them; they were raised in the Capitol their entire lives.

While the preps freshen up and drink their coffee, the five of us wait for Mathias. By the time he arrives, Emilia and my parents have also joined us in the dining room.

“You’re here,” I say gratefully when we pull away from a hug. I lower my voice. “I was afraid the preps would decide to give my whole family a makeover.”

He chuckles. “Though I can imagine that happening, I’m afraid we’re on a schedule.”

While Halla, Ursula, and Svein dash upstairs with their beautifying supplies, Mathias is swarmed with questions. Emilia is the most vocal, and the two bend their heads together over his sketchbook. Lucia and Owen are next to arrive, though I only have three minutes with them before the preps swoop in.

“It’s time!”

I groan, then salute the assembled Odairs. “Mourn me, loved ones.”

———

I tune out the trio as they bemoan the state of my skin and hair. Grinning, I wiggle my fingers, testing the new calluses. After I won, the Gamemakers removed all flaws from my skin, including hard-earned scars from years on my father’s boat. I was more than happy to make more, especially since I quit school.

“Saltwater is the best thing for you,” I argue, watching Svein agonize over my shaggy, unkempt hair. “I’m a fish, I’ll die without it.”

The rest of the makeover is pretty easy to ignore. Svein trims my mane, Ursula draws a cleansing bath, Halla files my nails. I listen to their chatter about the Capitol for once. Blues and greens are the last word in fashion right now. Tridents are the most desired accessories, though almost every store is out of stock. People are even dyeing their irises to match mine.

“Though they never look natural,” Halla muses, tilting my chin. “Not like yours. But still, they try. Personally, I think it’s rather stupid. Their eyes look like celery, not the sea.”

As if the Capitol knew anything about being natural. Now that the team has seen the ocean, they apparently know all about it. The ocean isn’t very bright this time of year, though. Winter turns it gray. When spring comes, the colors return. Since I don’t want to spoil their fun, I remain silent.

While I soak in the first of three baths, the team reads Mathias’s instructions about my outfits. When I’m finished, they direct me into a simple-looking suit. As usual, my stylist knows me better than I thought.

Though even he couldn’t predict my family’s reaction.

When I venture back into the dining room, I find it’s overloaded with Odairs. At the sight of me, Grant, James, and Peter start howling.

“Shut up!” I whine, ignoring the indignant prep team. I wonder if this is the first time they’ve realized how much the districts ridicule them. “This is the style in the Capitol!”

“You look like a merchant’s son!” James gasps, clutching a stitch in his side.

I scowl. “Shut up!”

Cassandra and Helene, the twins, flank me on either side. “Leave him alone, he looks adorable!”

“Adorable,” Erik echoes, bouncing baby Ariadne in his arms. I shoot him a dirty look.

My stylist addresses the assembled Odairs. “Trust me, this isn’t the worst I could do.”

I frown. “I apologize for my rude relatives.”

That shuts everyone up. Apologies fly around the room; Mathias accepts them all with an amused grin. He has an ancedote about the atrocious stylist from 3, and everyone is suddenly more accepting of my polished look.

———

When Septima arrives, clipboard in hand, it’s time to go. The storm has passed over by now; though it’s still overcast, the wind and rain have vanished. While she negotiates with the drivers the Capitol has provided, I insist on walking.

Owen and I take the lead. A few yards behind us, a handful of our cousins follow. The rest of the adults and my team take the cars.

“I don’t want you to go,” Owen mumbles. I watch him kick a pebble out of our way, then frown.

“Can I tell you a secret? I don’t want to go, either.”

“Why?”

I glance over my shoulder, making sure my voice won’t carry. “I don’t know, buddy.”

It was a tactical error to even mention it to him. Now I’m afraid he’ll tell my sister, or worse, my parents. But one thing stops me. Owen has been sneaking into my room for months. Though he never wakes up when I do, I can tell he senses my distress, even in sleep. For a five year old, he’s pretty insightful.

“I won’t say anything,” he promises, squeezing my hand. I smile, and squeeze back.

We pick up some followers on the way to the station. By the time we reach it, I’m leading a parade of people. The crowd starts cheering at the sight of me; to save time, I hoist my nephew onto my back, so he can see everything.

It’s eerily similar to my Reaping. Only today, I know my name is the one they’ll call. Still, I can feel my heartbeat racing. When Owen is safely in my sister’s custody, I march toward the platform. The crowd parts for me, so it doesn’t take long.

Mags is waiting for me. I’m glad she didn’t come to my house today; as resilient as she is, I worry about her health. All the traipsing around must wear her out. Septima and Mathias are at her side, while the preps linger near the mayor, examining his suit.

A hush goes through the crowd when Septima brings out the crown. Though I won’t wear it all the time, this part is televised, so I need to look the part. She hands it to me, and I crown myself. It’s some vague symbolic gesture.

When the cameras light up, I flash them a broad smile. Mayor Karanos acts as the interviewer, asking me questions that Septima has written on a tiny index card. With the cameras still rolling, I say brief goodbyes to my family. Though the reporters stay a respectful distance from us, it doesn’t feel right to me. My family seems to sense it, and accepts my reserved farewells.

The journalists have more questions for me; the crowd at my back inches toward the train. I can feel Owen stepping on my feet, his hand around my wrist. Politely excusing myself, I lead Owen toward a pillar. Septima is probably tearing her blue hair out at my actions. _The schedule_ , she’ll cry. But I don’t care. There’s no one more important than him.

I kneel so we’re at eye level. I always hated having to look up at adults when I was young; it made me feel unimportant.

“I don’t want you to go,” Owen whispers again. His eyes are swimming with tears. I wonder if I’m the one who can’t sleep alone, or it’s the other way around.

I recall my Reaping Day. We didn’t say much in our goodbyes. Sometimes I forget how old he is; though he’s a precocious boy, he’s still a child.

“Owen,” I say quietly, though I see the red eye of the camera watching us. I ignore it. “You know I’m coming back this time.”

He throws his arms around my neck and holds on for dear life. He’s so small that it’s no effort to hug him back. I turn my head toward his ear, hiding my face from the cameras. This wasn’t supposed to be televised material, but I know there will be no other opportunity until I return. After a moment, I lift the boy up, tickle him until he’s laughing, then steer him to Erik. Only then do I allow myself to be swept onto the train.

As it pulls away, I get one last look at my family, the Odairs and Fairleads and Marstons. Immediate and extended relatives, all here to see me off. I stand there until the tunnel encases the train. Septima gently lifts the crown from my head and whisks it away to another compartment.

“You can call them in the Capitol,” my mentor says after a moment. “I’ll make sure.”

I sigh. “Thanks, Mags.”

The seven of us dine on a number of tasty dishes. It’s strange, having my team together in one place again. The last time this happened, there was another tribute on the train.

When I’m getting ready for bed, I find the Odair anchor necklace in my pocket. _Owen_. What a little schemer! Though I know that goodbye was genuine, I have to admire the kid for his quick fingers. I’ll have to talk to Lucia about it when I go home. She’d die of embarrassment if she knew the nephew of the victor was picking pockets.

This necklace was my token in the Games. I personally gave it back to Uncle Adrian after my victory. I wonder if Owen begged for it on my behalf or nicked it when eyes weren’t on him.

Mags stops by to say good night, then orders me to sleep immediately. Septima will be at my door at the crack of dawn, with the preps in tow. If I want any rest, it has to be now.

 _No snakes here_ , I think. That thought seems to help. I give in to the fatigue and sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

“ _Ssh_ , don’t wake him!”

For a moment, I think it’s a Reaping Day. The three voices belong to my sisters, and they’re whispering about me. I have to pretend I can’t hear them. But then they revert from the script.

“Septima said we had to!” one of the voices snaps.

I fold my arms behind my head, sighing. “I suppose it’s time to get up?”

My prep team giggles in response. I open my eyes to find them perched on the bed, gawking at me. I hike up the sheet in response. It’s no use, though. There are no secrets, physically, between me and my prep team.

“You looked so well rested that we didn’t want to bother you,” Svein whispers conspiratorially.

“But Septima would have your heads,” I finish, and he nods.

While they prepare me for the day, I read the itinerary for my tour. As I pass through each district, I’ll present a speech, and observe their celebrations in my honor. There’s a protocol and everything—lines I have to learn, people I need to greet. When that’s done, the four of us head to the dining car.

“Our first stop is District Twelve,” Septima announces when we arrive. Her expression is twisted in distaste. “Which is good, we’ll get it out of the way.”

I recall what little I know of 12. It’s the smallest district in the country. Notorious for its poverty and lack of victors; their export is coal. I didn’t kill their tributes, both of them died in the Bloodbath. Other districts will be harder to face, so I’m happy this one is the first.

Mathias notices my necklace when I reach for the orange juice. He nods at it. “Did your uncle let you borrow that again?”

I laugh. “No, my nephew slipped it in my pocket when we were saying goodbye.”

“When we were at your house, he said we look like _anemone_ ,” Ursula says, looking puzzled. “What does that mean, Finnick?”

Mags looks out the window, hiding a grin. I clear my throat. “Um, it’s a marine animal. In the reefs. He probably meant you’re . . . colorful—er, beautiful. He meant you’re beautiful.”

Halla glows. “What an adorable child.”

I stifle a laugh. Of course Owen would know the right thing to say to the preps.

After breakfast, Mathias and I go to the back of the train and sit down, watching 12 approach. I see barbed wire fences and buildings covered in coal dust. My district has fences, but they are so far inland that people rarely come across them. It’s hard to barricade the ocean.

I know I’m fortunate to be born a Career. Even in 4, there are class distinctions. The merchants build the ships, materials, and nets needed for the fishermen. All of my family fits squarely in the fishermen niche. We’re not starving, but not out of our minds rich. Until my victory, at least.

There is a small number of poor people in 4. Those who gambled away money, lost their boats in storms, or the ones simply faced with rotten luck. But I know that even _they_ are better off than most of District 12.

My whole team rides with me through the crowd, then they enter the Justice Building to watch the event live. I’m alone on stage, save for officials, Peacekeepers, and the mayor. He makes a speech, and I’m supposed to respond.

Most of my speeches were written by Septima, but I add a few personal touches along the way. I say that though I never faced their tributes in the arena, I’m sure they would have been formidable opponents. I can tell that no one in the audience agrees, but they appreciate the sentiment. The mayor’s daughter, a little girl of seven, hands me a plaque when I’m finished. I thank her and she blushes red.

I even meet Haymitch Abernathy, the most recent victor from 12. He’s drunk, but that’s nothing new. We shake hands and I’m overwhelmed with the smell of liquor.

It’s a very subdued visit. I don’t mind. It’s stupid of the Capitol to expect grand celebrations from the districts who can barely provide for themselves.

———

After 12, we visit 11, 10, and 9. I see vast open fieIds of fruit. Cattle and beautiful horses. Seas of a different color than I’m used to—amber. I slowly adjust to the schedule and the constant presence of cameras. Parades are arranged through cheering crowds; I play the part of triumphant victor. Waves and smiles all around. If there’s any resentment toward me, it’s hidden well. I shake hands with past victors, who congratulate me sincerely. They know exactly what I’m going through.

Mere minutes after we leave 9, I can feel my hands start to shake. Though the other Career districts will be a nightmare of the worst kind, the next stop will have its own miseries.

Last year in the Games, I stumbled across Holly, the female tribute from District 8. She had crossed paths with a panther and lost. I stayed with her until she died, and since then, I’ve had trouble letting her go.

There was nothing romantic between us; we met late in the Games, when I was on my way up and she was close to death. I wouldn’t call us allies. Just friends—however brief, it was a friendship. United by loneliness and a love of the ocean.

The closer we get to her district, the sadder and angrier I become. I find myself asking, _why? Why her?_

These thoughts are dangerous. She died because she was a competitor in the Games. Though I’ve been taught to believe these musings, I don’t like them at all.

People notice my sour mood at dinner, but their attempts at conversation go nowhere. I eat what I can and return to my room, thumbing my necklace. I would attempt to repeat the Odair words, but they mean so little to me right now that I pull a pillow over my head and close my eyes.

After what seems like seconds, there’s a knocking on my door.

“Are you all right? I heard shouting.”

I stand back and let him into the room. He’s nursing a hot chocolate, but gives it to me.

“I dreamed of her,” I admit, staring out the window. “When she died.”

“They aren’t going to blame you for that,” Mathias says, raising an eyebrow. “How could they?”

I shrug. The dream hadn’t been all bad. I watched her die as I did in the arena, but instead of the hovercraft taking her to 8, it took us both to 4. The ocean washed away the blood and she was happy. Happy and alive.

“Try to get some sleep,” he says gently. “And don’t worry.”

After he’s gone, I do try. Holly’s in my dreams again, wearing the bracelet I placed on her body. We swim to the reef and I point out the aquatic wildlife. When we reach the shore, Holly takes off running. Laughing, I follow her footsteps. When I turn a corner, she’s vanished. Only the plant holly, her namesake, remains.

———

I’m so quiet in the morning that even the preps don’t try to talk to me. Mathias tips my chin up once—I stare into his storm-colored eyes and see that he’s not like the prep team. He never was. He understands what I’m feeling at this moment; perhaps it’s been that way all along. Just as I found room for mercy in the Games, he’s found success in the Capitol without succumbing to their immorality.

He drops his hand after a moment, but the warmth of it lingers. Then I know I’m not alone.

What neither of us expect is 8’s reaction to me.

The train lurches beyond the barriers of the district. Trees are replaced by grimy factories. Black smoke billows into the sky. It’s hard to imagine anything beautiful growing here. The barren landscape seems unhealthy compared to the earlier districts.

Children run alongside the train, laughing. I go to the window; people stop what they’re doing to wave. I smile and it’s real, the first real one since the tour began.

After I have a few words with a pair of Capitol attendants, I rejoin everyone at the doors.

My team files in behind me as we exit the train. The air is thick with soot and chemicals; I can hear the preps coughing, and resist the urge to do the same. No hope of a breeze here. It’s easy to see why Holly dreamed of the ocean.

We’re ushered onto a barge for the parade, and the crowd shouts my name. My smile is genuine; I had not expected this reaction at all. Mostly, I had imagined animosity. Perhaps they thought I capitalized on Holly’s situation to get sponsor support. But 8’s response is quite the opposite.

The mayor is a younger man, early thirties. He greets me warmly, and my team departs at this part of the welcome. Mags gives me one last smile before she disappears into the Justice Building. She knows my plan; the boxes are waiting inside the train.

My eyes touch down on a family of six, just below the stage. All have dark red hair, and every one of them is beaming at me. I realize who they are at once. Holly’s family.

_“Do you have any siblings?”_

_“Four. I’m the youngest. Lily, Violet, Daisy, Rose, and me.”_

_“All flowers, huh?”_

_“My mother is a dressmaker. She says she wanted to name us after pretty things.”_

All four girls are beautiful, and so like their youngest sister. Holly’s mother is petite and her smile is kind. Her father is seated in a wheelchair, but that doesn’t dampen his bright expression at all.

The other family, the one for the boy tribute, stands across from them. Even they are smiling at me, through the pain of losing their son. I wonder if I’m the first Career to show respect to another district, especially to one as poor as 8.

The mayor makes a speech, then hands the microphone to me. I shove Septima’s notes in my pocket and decide to create my own reply, from the heart. That’s what Phoebe said to do. My actions in the arena were not scripted. It’d be indecent to read crafted words when I should be the one to create them.

After I address the boy’s family, I turn to Holly’s parents and her sisters.

“Holly and I never spoke before that moment in the arena. I remember thinking later that she must have been extremely clever, to make it so for in the Games.”

Her mother has a special smile for my words; she and her husband link hands.

“I regret that we met under such circumstances; I know she would have made a valuable ally. I’m sorry for your loss,” My voice catches towards the end. “She will be missed. And though they won’t fill the hole she left behind, I have something for you.”

At my nod, the Capitol attendants bring forth the boxes, careful not to disturb the contents. The mayor steps forward to open one in the family’s stead.

“Hyacinths,” I say tenatively. “My sister grows them in our garden. They . . . they reminded me of her.”

For a moment, her family stares at me in astonishment. Watching my goodbye in the arena was a leap of faith for them, for a Career to care about someone other than themselves. Giving the tribute’s family something in return is, well, unheard of.

Her father is looking at me with a new appreciation. They don’t need to thank me; this was my way of thanking them. His daughter had been the reminder of home in the arena, where my own domain was dangerous.

 _Ships that pass in the night_ , I think. _People that meet once, briefly but memorably, and never see each other again._

There is a silent exchange between the mayor and Holly’s eldest sister. He clears his throat.

“Holly’s family has something for you as well.”

The same sister—Lily, I remember Holly’s list—steps forward. Her father passes over a glass jar. The contents are dark and green.

Lily approaches me, her blue eyes clouded with a number of emotions. In one moment, I can tell that the duty of raising the children fell in her lap. With her father obviously handicapped and her mother working, the four—three now—younger girls needed watching. She raised her. She will suffer Holly’s absence the most. And she is the one who comes forward to thank me now, with her district and all of Panem watching.

I wonder if Panem _is_ watching, though. Our actions here are tiptoeing on the edge of revolutionary. That was not my intention at all; I hope the Capitol interprets this in a platonic, innocent way, as they did in the editing of my Games.

Lily presses the jar in my hands. As I study it, I realize that the contents are the namesake of her sister. Holly. Green and red. Her hair was red, a violent red. If I think hard enough, I can still remmber the texture of it, when I closed her vacant eyes.

She stands up tall—as tall as she can, until there are mere inches separating us—and kisses my cheek. My eyes close for a moment, and softly, I hear her whisper _thank you_. When she takes her place on the lower stage, her eyes are brighter, as if a great weight was lifted from her shoulders.

“It symbolizes kindness,” the mayor says after a minute as gone by. I’m clutching the jar tightly, knowing that they wanted me to have it. It’s been sealed; if I break it, I can cultivate the garden in 4. Just as I gave them hyacinth, they gave me this. The plant will grow, and if cared for correctly, it will last for many years. Now I will never forget Holly; her namesake will be near me always. “Kindness, friendship, and protection.”

I lift my gaze to the mayor, Holly’s family, and District 8. There’s no thank you in the world that will make up for it, but I say it anyway. The applause is deafening. As I’m guided toward the Justice Building, it roars in my ear. When it’s closed, the noise is muffled slightly.

“You were right,” I say to Mathias when he rises to hug me.

“When am I not?” he teases, then pulls the jar from my hands. “Your sister will appreciate this.”

“Of course.”

“Very good show,” Septima offers, examining her wig in a mirror. “Excellent emotional material.”

I stiffen; Mags touches my arm and shakes her head. Septima, who doesn’t see the exchange, continues to adjust her blue curls. I decide it’s not worth arguing with her, and turn to my mentor.

“Mags, would you let me escort you to dinner?”

She chuckles at my mock seriousness, and takes my arm. “All right.”

———

Dinner is a pleasant affair. As the victor, I sit at the head of the table, with the mayor on my right and the mentors of 8 on my left. The woman, Cecelia, is my favorite. She’s sweet and eager to know about me and my family. She won a few years back, and is recently married. Lucia must have been watching it on tv; I remember the Capitol did a feature on the event. Between the second and third course, she pins something on my suit.

It’s a sprig of holly. Two berries and two green leaves; I smile. “Thank you, Cecelia.”

“It’s become something a trend around here,” she answers. “My husband planted some in the Victor’s Village.”

“Why are you still mentoring?” I laugh. “Shouldn’t you settle down?”

She shrugs. “The other victors have families and mills to take care of. When the two of us have children, someone else will take over.”

“Have a big family like mine,” I advise, trying to keep a straight face; she giggles. “Your house will never be quiet.”

I’m reluctant to leave 8, since my stay has been so wonderful. When the last lights of the district are far in the distance, I sigh.

“The others won’t be so easy,” I say, thumbing the sprig on my suit pocket.

Mags nods. “No, they won’t. But if it helps, remember we’re on a schedule. It only lasts for so long.”

When I get ready for bed that night, I keep the holly on the nightstand. It symbolizes protection; I wonder if it will keep the dreams away tonight.

———

I’m right; the other districts aren’t as easy. But I discover that 8’s welcome is enough to keep me going. It’s a huge relief to know that the district I had been dreading the most, even more than 1 and 2, responded to me in that way. A relief to know that Holly’s family knew I was sincere. That I wasn’t playing up the audience.

By the time we reach the other Career districts, I’m more than ready to go home. I know that after 1 and 2, only the Capitol remains. Mags promised to get me a phone there, so I can call my family. I can’t wait.

My appearances in those districts are a special kind of torture. I sense that they hate me for turning on my own kind, Careers, in favor of a solo mission. It’s irritating, because the packs never last, and there can only be one. One victor. I refuse to let them begrudge me for beating their tributes, however wrong it is. I give them what I didn’t give the other districts—arrogance.

When the train pulls away from 1, a huge sigh leaves my lips. I order a hot chocolate and scald my mouth, but I’m too excited to care.

The Capitol is overjoyed to see me. Adoring crowds greet me at the station, and the sight is so familiar to my first visit that my smile freezes for a moment. Only a moment. I’ve learned to grin through the nerves and fixate on one activity at a time. Smiling. Waving. Signing autographs.

I don’t realize that we’re going to be housed in the Training Center until we pull up to it in a limo. Mags nudges me forward; I had been rooted on the spot.

———

I flirt with Caesar again through my interview, to the delight of my audience. After that’s over, my party begins in the president’s mansion. I saw him briefly when the inteview was complete. Septima explains that he has other business; even stopping by for the interview is a dent in his schedule.

The dinner itself is uninteresting. The dances afterward are boring; the older citizens love the slow ones. I’m itching to dance like we do at home, but I bet those would be considered scandalous here. Excellent food, though. And drinks. A number of young Capitol boys, the sons of politicians, flock around me. We all have a good time experimenting with the liquor.

“Well, Finnick, what do you think of the party?” Nigel asks. He’s the son of the Minister of Communications. From what I’ve seen of his personality, he reminds me of my mischievous cousins. They all do.

“It’s a bore,” I drawl. The alcohol has loosened my tongue. “I thought the Capitol parties were all-nighters. This looks like it will end when the old people pass out.”

“There are fantastic parties,” another boy, Cawdor, smirks. “If you know where to look.”

I gulp back an electric-blue drink. “When this one ends, take me there.”

My train departs in the morning; I still have time. When there are only a few stragglers left, I intercept Septima on her way to the powder room. In the most innocent of terms, I explain that the guys have invited me out to tour the city.

“With whom?” she says sharply. I point at the group of them. Nigel, Cawdor, Dinadan, and the others. When she realizes that they are sons of big name Capitol leaders, she nearly drops her wig in excitement.

“Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”

“I won’t!” I say cheerfully, but lies look like the truth with a smile. I return to my new best friends, and we venture out into the night.

It’s cold; I wish I had thought to bring a jacket. One of the guys produces a flask of brandy, which warms us up immediately. We stumble down the busy streets, unnoticed, even with my celebrity status. The boys around me are pretty close in rank; perhaps it’s too dark to really see.

“Here we are,” Cawdor grins. The building he’s pointing to is practically thumping with the beat of the music. I see a long line stretching around the block, and groan in disappointment.

“What’s wrong?”

“It will take hours to get in!”

The boys laugh. “You’re _Finnick Odair_. We’ll get in.”

I’m doubtful, but I follow their lead to the front of the line. Nigel tells everyone to get behind me, so I’m the most visible.

The bouncer has his arms folded at the front door. “Get to the back, boys.”

“Do you know who he is?” Cawdor demands, leaning around me to glare.

“Unless it’s Snow’s bastard son, I’m not interested,” he grunts. I put forth my biggest smile.

“I’m Finnick Odair,” I say confidently. “I won the Games, this past summer? My pals and I are just trying to have some fun. Now, do you want me to go back on televison and say that _this_ club turned me away? A _victor_?”

———

I got us in.

The bouncer flipped his grumpy attitude real quick. Apologetically, he holds the door open, and his words follow us into the nightclub.

“So sorry about that, Mr. Odair! If there’s anything, _anything_ you need while in the Capitol, just let—”

“—me know, yeah, yeah,” Nigel finishes, grabbing flutes off a passing tray. One for him, one for me. “For you, good sir. To Finnick!”

The other guys lift their drinks in my honor, clapping me on the back. After a collective bottoms-up, we melt into the crowd of dancing Capitol citizens to the bar. I roll up my sleeves, suddenly aware of all the sweat around me.

Now _this_ is a party. The Capitol feeds on eternal youth and uses surgery to get it, but they forget all about behavior. The older citizens were the ones who liked champagne and waltzing. The younger ones are here now, knocking back shots and dancing until dawn. The only confusing thing is that they all look the same age.

I think I’m drunk.

“I want to dance!” I announce, and my voice seems louder than usual. I’ve tried liquor before, back home, but not like this. Not so freely.

“So dance with someone!” Cawdor slurs, his forehead pressed to the surface of the bar. “Lots of girls would jump for the chance.”

“No,” I insist. “She has to be the right one. Help me pick.”

The guys and I search the floor, looking for a prospective dance partner. Finally, Cawdor points at a woman in the crowd.

“There!” he shouts over the music. “The girl over there!”

The woman has wavy blonde hair and killer legs. I can hear the other boys snickering.

“ _Her_? Cordelia Herbault? Get over yourself, Cawdor. She’s an ice queen!”

“Oh shut up,” Cawdor snaps back. “Go on, Finnick.”

“I bet you my mother’s _diamonds_ that she’ll never do it,” Dinadan chuckles.

“I bet you my trident that I can get her and the entire dance floor to dance with me.”

“I’ll take that bet!”

I slide off the stool and face my comrades. “Men, it has been a pleasure. I’m off to dance with this woman and everyone else.”

They holler back in response. I turn and glide through the crowd toward the mysterious Cordelia. When I’m close, I reach out and tap her on the shoulder. When she turns to face me, I see she’s not a manufactured Capitol doll. I always thought that makeup and surgery were necessary to live here. She’s beautiful, naturally so, with light brown eyes and a sly smile.

“Hi,” I say, giving her a playful bow. “I’m Finnick Odair. I couldn’t help noticing you from across the crowd. May I have this dance?”

It’s a lame line, and she knows it. But she smiles, hands her drink to a friend, and takes my hand.

“I’m Cordelia,” she says, her red lips twisting into a new smile, one just for me. “I see Dinadan Malory in that group, watching us. Did he send you over?”

“I bet my trident that you’d dance with me,” I blurt out. Well fuck, if I wasn’t drunk, I wouldn’t have said that aloud. But she laughs, and I can tell it’s genuine.

“Well, you can’t lose that, can you? Let’s go.”

She starts swaying her hips, leading me through the colorful crowd to the dance floor. I’m swaying along with her, our hands interlocked. People recognize me and start clapping; I nod my head. So much better than the mansion party.

A new song begins and we face each other, moving in sync. I’m pleased to see that, despite the amount of alcohol I’ve consumed, it doesn’t affect my dancing skills. I’m a great dancer. Growing up, when storms forced us inside, my sisters and I would dance to pass the time. Sometimes, we still do.

Red eyes wink in my direction—cameras. I might be live to 4 at this moment, dancing with a gorgeous Capitol woman. Oh, how my cousins will howl. I’ll never hear the end of it when I return home.

“Was there another part of this bet?” Cordelia shouts over the music. She spins away from me, then comes back, our hands still linked together. Her hair tickles my arm in the last twirl.

“I need everyone to dance with me!” I yell back. “I don’t know how I can manage that.”

“It’ll be fun!” she laughs. “Come on, I’ll help.”

The song continues. While Cordelia dances solo, I invite another woman to dance. She beams and joins us in the middle of the floor. We’re forced to change our style of movement, but it _is_ fun. Cordelia and I move across the crowd, picking out other dancers. With each new partner, our circle widens.

I glance at the group I came with. Cawdor is laughing himself silly, Nigel is shaking his head, and Dinadan looks horrified. I must be winning this bet.

 _He can keep his diamonds_ , I think. _I’ve got the real gem right here._

At this point, everyone is dancing with us. I move to the center of the circle and start dancing on my own. Everyone twists and twirls away, leaving space for me to show off. They clap to the beat and I dance it, moving easily despite the drinks.

When I’m bored of that, I move over to Cordelia, bringing her back to the center. We move like we did before, but it’s closer, tighter. When I pull her back from a twirl, we’re nose-to-nose. Her lip curls up into a smirk; something in her eyes shifts. If it’s a reflection of mine, I’m not sure.

Impulsively, I lean down and kiss her. It must be the alcohol, surely. In the back of my mind, I think about the supposed _ice queen_ persona, the cameras, and all the people watching. But Cordelia returns the kiss, flinging her arms around my neck. This goes on for a few breathless seconds.When we pull apart, the people are dancing again, but I barely notice.

My cheeks are flushed. “Everyone at home probably saw that.”

She plays with the hair at the nape of my neck. We sway, ignoring the beat of the new song. “How old are you again?”

“Old enough.”

“Did Cawdor tell you to use that one?” she teases.

“That was an original,” I chuckle, one eye on my companions for this evening. “Although it appears I owe you a favor, since you helped me win.”

“You do,” she affirms, leaning in close. “Are they your bodyguards for the evening, or are you free to go?”

“Free as a bird,” I say, and it’s true. I might as well embrace my last night in the city.

“Then how about a real tour of the Capitol?”

I fight to keep the gleeful expression off my face. “Okay, sure.”

While Cordelia hunts for her coat, I beckon Nigel over for a word. He winks.

“Abandoning us?”

“Afraid so,” I laugh. “But thanks. And tell Dinadan he can keep those diamonds.”

“Will do.”

———

“Have you done this before?”

Cordelia shoves me into another alley, her eyes narrowed. While I catch my breath, she leans against the brick, watching. The two cameramen continue on their way, and she relaxes.

“No,” she grins. “But I’d rather not have my face splashed across the tabloids tomorrow. _Cordelia Herbault seduces the newest victor—turn to page three for details!_ ”

“Oh, is _that_ what you’re doing?”

“Well, yes,” she says with an air of superiority. “Unless you don’t want to.”

“I do.”

“Good.”

Back home in 4, I vaguely remember learning something about impulses. Impulses that can get us—us being kids with busy parents and a lot of free time—in trouble. But I find that memory easy to repress. Because from my position on the ground, I see that her dress is not only form-fitting, but quite simple to remove.

“Okay, we’re clear,” Cordelia declares. I rise and take her hand, grinning like a fool. A smitten fool. The buildings around us transform into sleek, expensive apartments. We dodge the doorman, then sneak into the elevator. It moves quickly, like the one in the Training Center. The walls are mirrors. Cordelia takes to adjusting her clothes while we wait, then slips off her heels.

I steal a glance at my reflection. My clothes are ruffled, my hair’s a mess, but I look alert. Perhaps the buzz wore off somewhere between the club and avoiding papparazzi cameras.

Cordelia is examining her own face in the mirror. She meets my eyes. “How old are you?”

“Old enough.”

“Are you going to give me a straight answer?” she demands. “Because I don’t want this to turn into ethical thing.”

I shrug. “I’m a victor, ethics aren’t in my repertoire.”

Cordelia frowns. “I mean, you want this? I’m not coercing you?”

Without her heels, she’s two inches shorter. I slide down against the wall so we’re at eye level. “Yes, and no.”

She leans in as if to kiss me, but the elevator _dings_. Eighteenth floor. I let her lead me down the hall. While she fishes around for a key, I run my finger down the slope of her neck. Cordelia shivers.

The door swings open and she tugs me inside. The keys cut into my hand; I don’t flinch. When she flings them to ground, they catch the light of the hallway on the way down, like a shooting star. She closes the door and we’re shrouded in darkness. Then we kiss.

I hear her shoes clatter to the floor. When I lift her up, she laughs, directing me in the darkness. “Left. Five feet forward. Right. Door.”

I kick the door open and we sink onto the bed. She asks for my age again. I throw the question back at her, my fingers working the buttons of her dress.

“Nineteen,” she replies. “And you?”

“Old enough.”

She says no more. Instead we kiss again and wriggle out of clothes. Her skin feels like satin. Suddenly, I pray it will last because Helene is always giggling about a boy in school who only lasted a minute, in their brief tryst during my Games. That would be highly embarrassing if it happened here.

It doesn’t, though. Cordelia, for all her hesitation, seems to sense my inexperience. Before my Games, I had only managed to slip a hand under Ashley Dureen’s skirt. She was in the mood to reciprocrate, but the lunch hour was nearly done and we snuck back to school. Cordelia, on the other hand, isn’t some fumbling girl. I sit up and she slides into my lap.

“Don’t we have to worry about—” I whisper, but she cuts me off with a kiss. There’s a _no_ in there somewhere, but the way she’s going about it, we best get a move on. I taste blood in my mouth; whom bit whom, I’m not sure.

I try to keep my voice down as she wraps her legs around my waist. She makes a hissing noise, moving on her own, but encouraging me, too. My eyes close, briefly, but I force them open. Her eyes are the brightest thing in the darkness. Her name escapes me, unbidden, and I see a flash of white teeth, a smile.

Cordelia rides it out with me, but when I finish, I know she doesn’t. Now _this_ I know how to do; when it’s her turn, I hear my name breathed out in the darkness.

Whenever the parties got too wild, the gossip boring, or the drinks plentiful, the fishermen of 4 talked about sex. As a child, when I’d tag along with my father to the pub, unnoticed, I heard more things than I probably should have. Then, when my cousins started doing it—James with the candlemaker’s daughter, Peter with a young teacher at school, Grant with a bored fishwife—I grew up eavesdropping on tales of their sexual adventures. By my fourteenth birthday, I had kissed over half a dozen girls.

Now I know what all the fuss is about.

There’s another round before we curl up, exhausted. I’m surprised we’ve lasted this long, with all the dancing, drinking, and dehydration. Cordelia claps for light—ignoring my unabashed staring—and reaches for a cigarette. I’ve seen a few Capitol people do this, so I shake my head when she asks if it will bother me.

“Your first time?” she asks.

“Yeah.”

“I meant the smoking.”

My cheeks burn. “Oh, that. Yes. So was it . . . disappointing?”

“Not really,” she chuckles, taking a long drag. “Just wondering. It was just a surprise, is all. How old are you?”

I thumb the Odair necklace, the only thing she left on me. “Fourteen. Fifteen in four months.”

She throws me an exasperated look. “Great.”

“You were,” I say cheekily, and she puffs smoke in my face. I steal the cigarette from her fingers and try it out for myself. I feel like I’m burning on the inside and hand it back to her, coughing.

“Was this your token?” Cordelia asks, curling the chain around her finger.

“It’s been in my family for generations,” I explain. “Sometimes I think it’s the only thing that keeps me grounded.”

“Gotta keep that ego of yours under control, I see,” Cordelia smirks. “Speaking of which, when’s your train?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Then stay,” she commands, clapping out the light. She finds no protest on my part. It seems so natural to fall asleep this way, with someone by my side. The walls of Cordelia’s apartment are soundproof; the Capitol street noise will not reach us up here. I fall asleep then, perhaps the best sleep I’ve had in days.


	3. Chapter 3

“I know you’re staring at me.”

I stifle a grin, even though her eyes are closed. “You’re being paranoid.”

She cracks one eye open, as if to prove me wrong. “And there you are, Odair.”

Cordelia sits up, snapping her fingers. The blinds open a fraction to reveal a purple sky. The sun will be rising soon, and my train will be departing.

“It’s before dawn,” she groans, pulling the pillow from underneath my head. “Why are we up this early?”

“Because I need to leave soon,” I explain. She raises her eyebrows.

“What about a shower first?”

———

When we flounce out of the shower, faces flushed and stomachs growling, she beckons me to the kitchen. I find I’m still under her spell; I follow without a second thought.

“You tore the buttons off my shirt,” I whine. She flips a switch on the stove and doesn’t answer, but through her hair, I see her grinning. Before we eat, she hands me a small pill for the hangover.

We feast on pancakes (blueberry for her, chocolate chip for me) and watch the news. The reporter is completely purple, with star tattoos across her forehead. She’s eager to switch to the gossip segment, and there I am, kissing Cordelia Herbault in high definition.

“Oh,” I say glumly, watching her expression change. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize.”

She clears our plates and returns to the table, sliding into my lap. My fingers lace behind her back. “It’s all right.”

“I really did, um . . . ” I redden. “It was really great.”

She giggles. “I stole Finnick Odair’s virginity. Who can say that? No one, except me.”

I almost fall off the chair with laughter. “Cordelia!”

“What?” she says innocently, adjusting the collar of my shirt. “And you better get going, you’ll miss your train.”

We walk hand-in-hand to the door. I didn’t bring a jacket, though I wish I had. At the last minute, she grabs a pair of men’s sunglasses and slips them on my face.

“Here, use these. It’s early, so no one will recognize you. And wear collared shirts for a few days, you have hickeys.”

I laugh, then kiss her. “Goodbye, Cordelia. Thank you.”

We share one last smile before I slip into the elevator. A weird, weighing pulse moves through my chest as I press the button for the lobby. I give my head a little shake. Overanalyzing it won’t get me anywhere.

Since I don’t know my way around the city, I hail a taxi. I have to tell the driver where to go, which exposes my identity at once. I pay him extra to keep this trip quiet. When the coins touch his outstretched palm, he makes a zipping gesture across his lips.

I get into the Training Center without breaking a sweat. However, I’m wary as I exit the elevator. Seeing no one, I head toward my room. It’s unlocked. Grinning at my good fortune, I open the door and slip inside.

The preps and Mathias are waiting for me, coffees in hand. I lift the sunglasses from my eyes. A nervous laugh escapes my lips.

“Good morning!”

Mathias smiles. “Good morning, Finnick.”

“So,” I say brightly, taking a sip of Halla’s coffee. “Is it prep time?”

“It’s talk time!” Ursula shrieks, slamming me down into a chair. The sunglasses slide down my face, and the room goes dark. Halla pulls them from my eyes, giggling like a loon.

“Now, now, leave him alone,” Mathias warns, but they’ve already begun the interrogation. I’m poked and prodded into a bath, where they find the hickeys. Svein’s voice rises to a whine.

“Finnick, it’s one thing to have a walk of shame, it’s quite another to have evidence of it!”

“What?” I say, watching my stylist reach for his sketchbook and smile. “Use cover-up.”

“I couldn’t believe my eyes,” Halla trills, filing my nails down. “Though Cordelia really is a wonderful woman, she’s the director of the biggest architecture firm in the city! Always drawing something, that one.”

“Though she never keeps up with the latest fashions,” Ursula scoffs. “No gems or anything.”

Mathias swats the back of her head with a newspaper. “I don’t wear any of the latest fashions.”

“But you design them!” she retorts. “Well, anyway . . . yes, she’s an absolute genius with buildings. I think she even designed her own apartment complex.”

My thoughts drift back to that place, but I snap myself out of it. I’ll think about that later, when I’m alone. Instead I clear my throat.

“Will all of you miss me? This might be the last time we see each other.”

Halla’s eyes well up. “Oh, of course we’ll miss you, Finnick! And don’t think like that, there’s always opportunities in the Capitol. Maybe you’ll mentor! Then we’ll be your prep team again!”

“I can’t think of anyone else making me pretty,” I say with a straight face. The preps miss the sarcasm completely, but Mathias chokes on his coffee.

“Is there a big sendoff, or do we board the train?”

“We leave in an hour,” Septima announces when she enters the room. Mags follows in her wake, giving me a secret smile. “Everyone is too hungover from last night, as per usual.”

I lean back in the tub. “Good morning, Septima. Morning, Mags.”

Septima flashes me an exasperated look. “Morning, dear. I trust your night went well?”

 _Very well_ , I think. Aloud, I say, “Yes, and yours?”

Her chatter over my success takes us all the way through the last stages of prep, makeup, and dress. Finally, she pauses to take a breath. I throw an arm around my stylist, who raises his eyebrows.

“Well, Mathias, will _you_ miss me?”

“Yes,” he grins, keeping pace with me. My arm never moves. “I must admit, you put my designs on the map.”

I pretend to be angry. “So you’re using me?”

“Only a little,” he answers, and we laugh. It’s been a real pleasure to be around my team again. They stuck with me through my Games and the Victory Tour. I don’t know how to thank them.

“I read all the books you gave me,” I tell him as we enter the train station. “But I don’t want to give them back.”

“Keep them, I have the digital copies. I’ll send the rest of my collection, if you like.”

“Thank you,” I say sincerely, knowing we only have minutes left. “For everything.”

I hug him goodbye, holding on a little longer than appropriate. He gave me real support during my time here, and I’m sad we must say farewell.

“Save those for your family, boy,” he says fondly, like he did so many months ago. We share one last thumbs-up, then I board the train with Mags and Septima in tow.

“Now all we have is the Harvest Festival,” Septima says happily. “How do you feel, Finnick?”

“Relieved,” I say honestly, and my mentor laughs. I take her hand and the three of us head for the dining car. While Septima makes a few phone calls, Mags and I talk to pass the time.

“So do you think it’s time for me to mentor?”

She snorts. “Not yet. Do I look dead to you, boy? No, you’ll stay in 4 where you belong.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

We turn to look out the window. The train is only minutes away from the Capitol, but I imagine I can hear the sea already, churning and thrashing over the rocks.

———

The train pulls into the station slowly, as if to heighten the suspense. I tap my foot impatiently. The Odair necklace bounces against my chest in a staccato beat.

Mags doesn’t hold my hand this time; she probably knows I’ll throw myself at my family after the doors open. She simply leans on her cane, watching me. I make a face and she rolls her eyes, jabbing my shins.

“Stand up straight,” she scolds, and I sense real emotion behind her words. It’s been a number of years since a 4 victory, even if we are Careers. I’m pleased that she can breathe easily, knowing she brought someone home.

The doors slide open and I’m off the train in seconds. Cameras flash in my face but I make a mad dash for my relatives, who hoot and holler at the sight of me. I dutifully kiss my mother’s cheek and smile for a family portrait. My dad pushes me toward Erik and my uncles, who jeer and demand to know Cordelia’s name.

“Where are all the kids?” I ask when the joking dies down. We walk away from the station, ignoring the cameras. I’ll give them my smiles at the banquet tomorrow night.

“At school,” Erik explains. “Septima called ahead and said the train would be late.”

There must have been a fuel stop last night, when I was sleeping. No matter. I shake my head.

“I’m going to there,” I declare, eyeing the time. It’s nearly lunch, I’ll catch everyone while they eat. I bid my family a quick goodbye and head for the school. It’s cold outside, so the lunches are usually restricted to the cafeteria. I creep through the deserted halls with a hunter’s tread. My gait is soundless, as if I’m stalking the next tribute.

The noise level picks up when I approach the double doors. Peering inside, I see that my cousins are sharing one table. It’s always been that way, even before I dropped out of school. For two seconds, I feel like an intruder. I push one door open and slip inside.

No one has noticed me, which is exactly what I want. The monitors do, though. I press a finger to my lips and point to the table comprised of Odairs and other extended relatives. One of the older teachers, the woman who teaches the six year olds, hands me a megaphone. Grinning, I press the button and direct it toward my desired table.

“Hey, Odair!” I shout, and many jump at the feedback. I watch, laughing, as my cousins whip their heads around, see me, and yell. Chairs are overturned and lunches are thrown as the horde lurches toward me in one mass wave. I have less than five seconds to return the megaphone before they’re on me.

I’m hugged, kissed, and clapped on the back. Everyone is overjoyed to see me. Questions about the Tour, the Capitol, and Cordelia fly around, but I’m so happy to be home that I can only laugh. Other students, even those of Eloise’s family, come over to shake my hand. The teachers are there too, congratulating me. After what seems like hours of this, Evan Karanos steps on a table.

Evan Karanos is the mayor’s son; people listen to him, no matter how old they are. He holds his hands out for silence. The din dies down immediately.

“Our victor has returned,” he declares solemnly, but I see a wicked expression cross his face. “The traditions have not changed; 4 and the sea are one. It’s time for the triumphus.”

Thanks to Mathias and his books, I know the origin of the word. A _triumphus_ was a parade in that place called Rome, where a general celebrated his military victory. Sort of like our Tour, except in one city, not twelve districts and the Capitol. How 4 managed to learn about it, I’ll never know.

Everyone cheers; I laugh again, because I never imagined I’d be doing one of these. I’m half dragged out of the building, then hoisted onto Grant and Peter’s shoulders. I put up a halfhearted fight, because everyone does, it’s part of the fun. Townspeople see what’s happening and join the group, wearing jubiliant expressions.

I see Owen walking with Cassandra, but his eyes are focused on me. His face is flushed with laughter. I wink at him.

The triumphus always occurs after a Victory Tour. The victor is carried to the farthest dock from the shore, then released into the water. They must swim to the beach to complete it. Anyone can swim that length in summer, but the victor status, plus the winter season, is the real trial. It is 4’s own Victory Tour, a test that only the strongest can complete. Winning the Games made me a candidate.

When we reach the stairs, I’m left alone. I climb to the top, seeing that a large portion of the district has flooded the beach. My heart swells. Say what you want about Career districts, but we do have loyalty, at least to our own.

The air is thinner up here, and colder. I know that removing my clothes, though it seems stupid, will help me. I slip off my blazer, and on a sudden impulse, toss it into the churning ocean. My classmates whoop at the sight.

Grant’s voice reaches me. “We’re getting old here, Odair!”

“Yeah, did that Capitol woman wait this long?”

I toss my shoes and shirt over the side. “She helped me take the clothes off, barnacle head.”

The older kids cover the ears of those who don’t understand, howling with laughter. I see Owen’s puzzled expression and try not to join in. I’m too old for that. I tug the pants down my legs and throw them over too, but leave the underwear on. I may not be shy about swimming nude with family around, but this is the whole district. I don’t think so.

I position myself on the edge of the platform, breathing deeply. The wind bites at my exposed skin. With one last deep breath, I lift my arms and dive into the waiting sea.

The ocean embraces me like an old friend. I plunge beneath the waves, gasping. The cold paralyzes me for a moment, but I refuse to panic. Two heartbeats later, I surface like a flying fish. My arms know what to do; I cut through the water like a scythe. A heaviness pulls at my limbs, trying to stop me. I don’t let it.

The water warms up a little as I approach the shore. In my journey, the only sound I could really detect was the wind and waves. Now, all I hear are cheers. The crowd is screaming my name, urging me forward. I feel my feet touch the bottom, but I keep swimming. When I’m in knee deep water, I stand.

Phoebe glides out of the crowd, a blanket in her hands. She drapes it over my shoulders and I smile with blue lips. Everyone rushes into the water, now ankle-deep, to give me congratulations. No one ever really feels like a victor until this event. I passed the final test.

The mayor himself is there; he stands with his son. He smiles at me.

“How do you feel, Finnick?”

“C-Cold,” I gasp, my teeth chattering. Everyone roars in approval. Finally, after what seems like eons, my family is escorting me home.

“You’re blue,” Lucia giggles, pressing a kiss to my cheek. Her lips burn.

“Hahughugh,” is all I can say.

My father and Erik half-drag me to the bathroom, running the water at the highest temperature. I jump in when it’s full, then yelp at the heat.

“Sorry,” Dad says, though he’s really not. He’s wearing that proud expression again; my chest constricts. I pretend to be miffed and sink underneath the surface. When I come up for air, Erik is the only one in the room.

“I’m not supposed to tell you,” he says. “But your uncles and cousins are planning to pounce at the first opportunity. They still want to know all about—”

“Cordelia,” I answer, smiling. “Yeah, I figured.”

“If you tell them, I’ll deny it,” he warns.

“I won’t say anything.”

———

The Harvest Festival is a grand party at the mayor’s house. Evan Karanos pals around with me like we’ve been friends for years. I don’t mind, he’s harmless. We drink red wine (not a lot of it, because things happen when I’m drunk) and Mags enchants us all with stories of her early days of Panem. It’s a quiet discussion, something hushed, because she talks about the time before the Games. When the districts weren’t fenced and people roamed free.

After dinner, the party ventures outside into the backyard. Heaters have been installed so we can sit without getting a chill. However, the sound of someone yelling brings us to the front door, and I find myself face-to-face with Osric Huron.

I haven’t seen him since before the night of the interviews. Mags told me over dinner once that he left the Capitol after Eloise died, just as I suspected. I remember being angry at this; it meant that Mags was left alone to take care of me. Though my Games only lasted a week, that meant she had to be in the control room almost all the time.

He slings an arm around my shoulder. “Finnick, my boy, how have you been?”

I was angry then; I’m angry now. I push him into the bushes, watching his flask fly through the air. “Well, Osric, I’m good.”

“What was that for—” he sputters, but my punch sends him flying to the ground. He’s on his feet immediately. I prepare myself for a fight, but it never happens. Two Peacekeepers stand on either side of me, restricting any movement. Osric needs four of them in order to be restrained.

“I could have died because of you! Mags needed you, and so did I. But you quit because your favorite didn’t win.”

Osric laughs. “It’s all about you, isn’t it? Happy to be home? Don’t get used to it. I’m expendable, but _you_ . . . ”

No one speaks. I’m not sure how to interpret his words. Are they the ramblings of a drunken failure, or something else? Either way, he shrugs off the Peacekeepers and stomps away, the empty bottles in his pockets clinking.

———

My fight with Osric is the subject of gossip for the next few weeks. I shrug off my family’s worries, saying that Mags should have punched him, not me. Whenever she hears me say that, she whacks my shins with her cane. I’ve got the bruises to prove it.

Adjusting to life in 4 this time is as natural as breathing. With no tour on the horizon, I’m as free as I’ve ever been. I find an easy rhythm of life and coast through it. Life around me goes on accordingly. Days, weeks and months glide by like water, slipping through my fingers.

My niece Ariadne starts to toddle uncertainly on her feet. We thought crawling was a nightmare, but by the time she’s nine months old, she can get from one end of the dock to the other. More often that not, we find her sitting in the doorway, her eyes focused intently on the ocean. Like all babies in this district, she’s fascinated by the texture and color of the sea.

Emilia’s garden became too large for our backyard, so I had a greenhouse constructed for her to hold all of her plants. Her eyes were full of tears that day, and she insisted on rebreaking the seal on my jar of holly and planting some in the new structure. I call it a fair deal because I had already tried planting some in the windowboxes, but found that it grew at an alarming rate. We regretfully had to scorch the ground there, because it was starting to invade the other houses in the Village.

My youngest sister has also captured the attentions of a man named Thomas Donovan, well-off netmaker in the middle of town. Last week, I had the misfortune of overhearing a conversation between Emilia and Phoebe about his “calloused hands” and promptly fled the room.

I turn fifteen and Owen turns six a week later. The double celebration (held between the two days) is a grim one, because on the eve of the party, Mags suffers a stroke. Matthew Harper calls me from the train station (where the only available public phone is) to let me know. I nearly overturn the dinner table in my haste to get to the healer’s home, where she’s being cared for. She improves a little more every day, but calls often and asks me to take her for walks. She leans heavily on my arm, and the cane.

Her frustration grows as her speech doesn’t go back to normal. I promise to act as her interpreter; it seems I’m the only one who understands. It hits me then that I’m the one who spends the most time with her.

June bleeds into July, and the heat is inescapable. I’ll freely admit to using the weather as an excuse to suggest a boat ride on _Victoria_. Most of my passengers are girls. The Odair boys turn green with jealousy when I stroll by with a new date.

Finally, a new Reaping Day arrives. I dress slowly. The old anxiety of being selected is gone. A fresh fear consumes me now—one that a family member will be chosen. This had always been a concern, but my status as a victor could be a disadvantage for those still in the running.

As a victor, I’m ineligible to be Reaped twice. Phoebe stands with me in the crowd, while my nephew clamors up my back, trying to see. I hoist him up and it feels like old times. Exactly a year ago, I was carrying him to that stage. Chills go down my spine. I feel Owen poking at the back of my neck, and smile.

I’m not familiar with the two tributes chosen, but both look eager to play. Perhaps my example has created a revival of sorts in 4, but it makes me uneasy. I see the disappointment on a few of my cousins’ faces, and wonder if they ever wanted to be in my shoes.

Though I’ve watched the train leave before, it feels different this year. I know what lies beyond 4. It’s no mystery to me, but apparently it’s an adventure to the new tributes.

Days later, when the Games begin, my relatives and I head for the town square. I spot Aiden and Briana in the crowd, newly married and outshining all of us with their happy glow. I approach them to say hello.

“Hey, Finnick,” Aiden greets me, while Briana kisses my cheek. We chat for a few minutes, then turn to face the screen. Everyone straightens up at the sound of Claudius Templesmith’s voice. My heart pounds with the old nerves, and I fight to keep my face clear of it.

This arena is an endless expanse of desert. Thin, spidery trees dot the region, but they are spaced so far from the Cornucopia that reaching them could mean certain death. Vipers slither out of nests in the rocky terrain west of the tributes. Beyond that is a tiny trickle of a stream.

As the camera pans on each contestant, I can see, even in the eyes of the Careers, that these Games will be deadly. There is only one water source available, save for expensive Capitol sponsors. The arena has few places to hide and unseen, exotic predators. I had been blessed with trees to escape my enemies; the tributes this year will have no such luck. The gong sounds and the tributes dash for the Cornucopia.

The entire district holds its breath. Last year, I distinguished myself by being one of the first to take supplies and escape. The tributes for these Games are not so lucky. The heat, perhaps even worse than the heat today in 4, wears down on all of them. The first hints of dehydration emerge as the Bloodbath begins.

I hear horrified gasps around me and pay closer attention. In the quick flashes of the battle, I see the girls from 1 and 2 dismembering 4’s female with axes. In the meantime, the boys from those districts pursue our male tribute with disturbing intensity. His blood spatters their faces as they club him to death with a mace.

My palm is wet; I dug my fingernails in so deep I drew blood. It’s not uncommon for the previous winner’s district to be targeted. Now that I think of it, 1 and 2 were punished by other districts in a similar way. Some people might call it fair. But something about those attacks seemed organized, as if the Careers had planned it beforehand. That last thought makes me ill. Though I am not the first tribute from 4 to win, I am the most recent Career to turn on the others.

Needing some time alone, I take _Victoria_ out into deep sea. There’s no wind today; I rest on deck as the boat drifts along. While I’m out there, I think about Mags. She insisted on going to the Capitol despite her health problems. An older male victor offered to help this year.

When I return to the wharf, Phoebe is there. She must have been waiting a long time; I see a book in her arms, and a picnic basket. She hops on deck and helps me tie up the boat. Then we sit, nibbling on what she’s prepared.

“Well?”

I shrug. “I feel better now.”

“It’s not your fault, I hope you know that,” she says, removing the bookmark. I watch as she piles lifejackets together to form a cushion, then curls up with her novel. I examine the title and realize it’s from the collection Mathias sent me. I don’t mind; Phoebe’s always been the bookish Odair girl.

“Did you hear about the teaching job?”

She looks up and smiles. “I did; I start in the fall. I’m teaching the thirteen year olds.”

I grimace. “That’s around the age when we start getting lippy.”

Phoebe rolls her eyes. “Oh, I can handle lippy. How do you think I tolerated you? Besides, fish who get lippy—”

“Get a hook,” I finish, and we laugh.

———

Summer ends with a chill, hinting a cold winter. Mags and I continue with our weekly dinners. Matthew joins us whenever he can. He’s two years younger than me, but twice as funny.

Phoebe stops by sometimes, so we can practice speaking exercises. I know Mags feels uncomfortable with us helping her; old pride, I guess. But it seems cruel of me not to, knowing that her mentorship saved my life. There is nothing I can do to repay her, but I try.

One cold day in February, I take the boat out in the choppy sea. It’s been a year since my Tour; the last victor passed through 4 nearly a week ago. I glide around for some time, sailing without purpose. At half past noon, a white ship steers alongside my boat.

It’s a Peacekeeper vessel. One of them motions for me to drop anchor; I throw it over the side and tie down the cords they throw at me. When the two ships are safely secured, a plank is placed between them. Half a dozen officers join me on deck.

I recognize Head Peacekeeper Sinclair, and nod. He returns the gesture, unsmiling. His liutenant, Peacekeeper Mortimer, steps forward.

“You need to come with us, Odair.”

“Is there a problem?”

“There’s been a murder,” Mortimer informs me, producing a pair of handcuffs. Involuntarily, I step back.

“Is there a reason you’re arresting me?” I sputter. “I’ve been on this boat all day.”

“Finnick,” Sinclair interrupts, his eyes cold. “It’d be best if you went quietly.”

“Quietly?” I repeat incredulously. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong.”

I take a step forward this time, but Mortimer misinterpets my intention entirely. He swings a beefy fist and suddenly I’m on the ground, cradling my face.

“Mortimer!” another Peacekeeper snaps. I know her voice; it’s Galina Fay, one of my father’s best customers. People in 4 like her; she’s fair with rulebreakers and delights in busting canoodling kids after nightfall, myself included. “He wasn’t going to try anything.”

_A murder? Who’s dead? They think I did it!_

Two of them drag me onto their boat and cut the ties to mine. Thank goodness I dropped anchor; in today’s waters, it could have gone sailing into the rocks. I’m deposited in the captain’s cabin like a piece of cargo. Dumbfounded, I watch the harbor grow larger by the minute. Terror crawls up my spine like a spider. I finally know what my victims felt like; trapped and afraid.

When we’re docked, Mortimer hoists me up by the collar of my shirt. This is the way we walk off the boat, down the pier, and towards the town square.

I will not show fear. _Odairs are not afraid. Odairs are not cowards._ It’s as if I’m Proteus, the god of many forms. I’m a shark. I’m a victor. I’m the sea. I refuse to let them frighten me.

Mayor Karanos is standing at the podium, the same one he uses for Reaping Days. At the foot of it, I see the body, laid out for everyone to see.

It’s Osric Huron.

His throat has been slit so deeply that I can see bone. The body is bloated and white. From the state of his clothes and hair, he was dumped in the ocean after his death.

A fresh wave of horror crashes over me. Osric is dead. The Peacekeepers said there had been a murder, and they went after the person who had the biggest grudge against him.

Me.

“Several suspects have, uh, already been apprehended,” the mayor continues, his speech disrupted by my arrival. I hear gasps in the crowd and wonder, do the people of 4 believe I’m to blame?

Mayor Karanos is as astonished as the rest of them when I’m forced to stand next to a drunkard, a scowling woman, and a man I recognize as the pub owner. Even their eyes widen as I’m placed in their company.

I stand up straight, head held high. I know my eye is turning black and blue, but I will not wince. I won’t move. _Still as stone_ , I think. My family (the enormous group of them) pushes their way to the front. Mags is at my mother’s side, while my father storms into the aisle created by the crowd. They back away, giving him room.

“This is absurd!” he barks, and the people quiet immediately. Felix Odair has an excellent reputation in this district, and being the father of a victor, people respect him all the more. “Release him!”

Sinclair doesn’t answer, Mortimer does. Is there some sort of power play going on? Either way, my arresting officer scoffs. “Mind your tongue, Odair. Your boy is a suspect in a murder investigation.”

“What evidence do you have linking him to this crime?” my father retorts. “Other than hearsay.”

“The brutality of the act,” another officer pipes up. I want to roll my eyes. Most of the _children_ in 4 could have done this. Training is an open secret here, everyone knows that.

“That’s ridiculous,” someone shouts; three dozen people roar in agreement. I say a silent thanks to the people of my district; they have not forsaken me.

“Well, boy?” Mortimer growls at me, dragging me to the front. “Why wouldn’t you do this? Everyone saw you attack him last winter.”

My cheeks flush. _Of course_. My public fight with him is an important point against me. Showing anger now will not help my case. Instead, I take a deep breath.

“I’ve committed enough murders in my lifetime,” I say calmly.

You could hear a pin drop in the square. I’ve been tightlipped about my feelings towards the Games, but referring to the other tributes as murder victims is a strange thing for a Career.

“He has an alibi,” Dad continues. “There was a gathering at the school last Friday. Mayor Karanos said Huron’s been dead for three days. Finnick couldn’t have done it.”

Voices fly out around. People of all ages, young and old, shout they saw me last Friday. I only remember half of them being there, which is humbling. Members of my district are lying for me. I don’t deserve them at all.

My father opens his mouth to speak again, but Evan Karanos dashes up to the stage, holding a small communication device. The mayor listens to it for a moment, then hands it to Sinclair.

“Release him,” he tells Mortimer sharply. I watch in amazement as the same Peacekeeper who arrested me is now the one letting me go. “Executive decision.”

 _Executive?_ What would the President have to do with this? I don’t think too hard on it, because I want to get as far away from this situation as possible. I brush past Mortimer and rejoin my relatives in the crowd. We sweep away from the square without looking back.

“Close call,” James jokes, but no one feels like laughing. I turn to my father.

“Thanks, Dad,” I murmur, and he holds my arm tightly.

“Unnecessary,” he says with a fierce glare over his shoulder. “It’s foolish that they arrested you at all.”

Lucia holds my face in her hands. “Mortimer, I assume?”

I nod. “I’m fine, everyone. Really. I’m just going to find _Victoria_ before she sinks.”

A few Odair boys insist on accompanying me. I don’t mind; all the chatter is a perfect distraction. We get her tied to the dock in no time.

I spent the rest of the day in the greenhouse. The holly is growing hapazardly out of its pot; I smile. _Holly, what would you do?_

She’d tell me to count my blessings. So I do. I come out of hiding and join my family for dinner. We all try to forget today, and I attempt to do the same.

When I sneak back to my old house, Owen is already asleep. I pull the covers over us and close my eyes. Finnick Odair escaped death again.

 _The president intervened on my behalf_ , I think drowsily. _That’s no small thing._ Despite this, I attempt to clear my mind and sleep. For the first time in a long time, I sleep without dreaming.


	4. Chapter 4

Osric’s killer is never caught.

The trial went on after I left the square, but no suspect was convicted of the crime. The woman turned out to be a jilted lover; the pub owner wanted money, while the drunkard was the one who found the body. There wasn’t enough evidence on any of them, so the three were set free, as I was.

While my close shave with a guilty sentence becomes fishwife gossip, I pretend like it never happened. My black eye fades with time, and I tell myself it was all just a misunderstanding. The Peacekeepers avoid the Odairs like the plague, as if to make up for the mistake. My cousins benefit the most from this, because I hear tales of trysts in places where they normally would have been discovered.

Spring and summer make Osric’s death seem like a distant memory. After school, Owen and I take _Victoria_ out until dinner. He’s taller now, with knobby knees and bony elbows. We record his height on the mast, even if it doesn’t change much day-to-day. We return to the Victor’s Village by nightfall, sunburned and exhausted.

Today is one such day. Phoebe and I are playing a guessing game, while Owen struggles to follow along. We cheat a little, to let him win. Thomas and Emilia are too busy making eyes at each other to notice, while Lucia is rocking Ariadne to sleep in her arms.

Suddenly, the phone rings. Erik rises to answer it, looking puzzled. All of us quiet down at once. No one ever calls here except Mags, when she wants me to come over.

“Hello? Oh . . . good evening to you, sir. Yes, he’s here. Just a minute.”

I assume _he_ means me. And I’m right. Erik covers the receiver and tells me it’s President Snow calling. The president of Panem is calling _my_ house, asking to talk to _me_.

“Hello?”

“Good evening, Finnick,” President Snow answers. “I hope I’m not interrupting dinner.”

“No sir, of course not,” I lie easily. “What can I do for you?”

He chuckles. “Right down to business, eh? I’m calling to inform you that I’ll be paying District Four a little visit in say . . . a month’s time.”

I try keep my voice steady, though on the inside, I’m shaking. _Is he changing his mind about the conviction?_ “That’s wonderful, sir.”

“Oh, don’t sound so frightened!” he laughs, a disconcerting sound. “I know you had nothing to do with Osric’s demise.”

I exhale. “That’s good to hear.”

“Finnick, I’m coming to discuss important matters. I don’t recall having enough time to talk when you visited the Capitol, something I deeply regret. I hope we can change that upon my arrival.”

“Of course,” I smile, aware that I’m being watched. “Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Bye now.”

I hang up the phone and turn back to the assembled Odairs. They’ve let their dinners get cold. I flash them a broad grin. “The President is coming _here_ , to see _me_.”

Praise flies around the room and I want to call Mags, but I decide to wait until tomorrow. For now, I simply return to my dinner, listen to my dad embarrass Emilia in front of her boyfriend, and wonder: what important matters did Snow want to discuss with me?

———

I ring in my sixteenth birthday with a gathering on the new dock. As usual, it’s a party for me and a party for Owen, who turns seven this year. To everyone’s relief, Mags is there to celebrate, and looking better than she has in weeks. Well, at least until I take her aside and tell my good news.

“What?”

“President Snow is coming _here_ ,” I repeat. “Two weeks from now.”

Mags stiffens. “What for?”

I shrug. “He has something important he wants to talk to me about. Mentoring, I think. With Osric dead, there’s really no one else.”

I don’t like the shadow that crosses her face, but her speech, even with the effects of the stroke, is perfectly clear. “I don’t feel well.”

“Oh,” I say, feeling embarrassed. Here I am, bragging about Snow coming to visit, while she isn’t feeling one hundred percent today. Am I losing my touch? I’m supposed to be her interpreter. “I’m sorry. Do you want me to walk you home?”

“No,” she says sharply. “I’m fine. Enjoy your party.”

She pivots and walks toward the end of the dock, her cane thudding with each step. Bewildered, I accept a drink from a passing Grant and knock it back. I stagger. Of course it’s alcoholic. My cousins know how I get with it, but they like to see what happens. I wipe my mouth and stare after Mags, wondering what caused her rapid mood swing. Was it something I said?

Hurt flies around me like an irksome fly; I bat it away. It’s not all about me. Maybe she really doesn’t feel well.

 _I’ll call her in the morning_ , I decide. _Make it up to her somehow._

———

The whole district hums with excitement as the president’s train rolls into the station. It’s nothing like the gray tube of the tribute train. It’s sleek and gleaming. It must be faster than the wind.

Two days pass before I hear word from him. He spends time with Mayor Karanos, examines the school, promotes rookie Peacekeepers, and tours the shipyard. I feel like I’m going to explode with impatience. Finally, on his second afternoon in 4, my phone rings.

“Hello?”

“Hello, Finnick,” he says, like we’ve been friends for years. “I trust you’re doing well?”

“Yes, sir. Are you enjoying your stay in Four?”

Snow chuckles. “I am, thank you. Tell me, are you available this evening?”

“Of course, sir.”

“I’ll see you at sundown.”

True to his word, there’s a knock on the front door as soon as the sun sets. Since she’s been dying to, I let Emilia answer the door. She greets him with an easy grace. She always liked to play house when we were young.

“Finnick,” President Snow says warmly, extending his hand. I smile.

“Mr. President,” I answer, then introduce him to all family members present. Owen shakes Snow’s hand vigorously, to everyone’s amusement. When he steps back, I squeeze his wrist and lift him upward, watching his small feet kick back and forth. The president clears his throat.

“Finnick, may we have a word, in private?”

“Of course,” I say, setting Owen down gently. I wave Snow forward and he follows me, his gait noiseless. I finally settle on the office we barely use, letting him enter the room first. When he’s seated in the plush armchair, I crack a window to let some of the night air in.

Snow studies me for a moment. “Have you guessed why I’m here?”

I have, but I won’t say that. I shake my head politely. “No, sir.”

He laughs. “Oh, of course you have. You’re a clever boy. Had to be, to win your Games the way you did.”

Modesty has never been one of my strong suits. “All right, I do have one guess.”

“Tell me.”

I’m confident. “You want me to mentor. The next Games are coming up soon, and Mags needs help.”

“Very astute,” he nods. “Mags has made it clear to me in recent years that she wants to continue mentorship. But I find we’re short a male mentor this year—Huron died rather violently, I’m afraid.”

“Are you sure you want me, sir? I’m only sixteen. There are older victors in 4—”

“Youth isn’t an indication of skill,” the president assures me. “Besides, every victor was your age at one point.”

“That’s true,” I say slowly. Now that I think of it, I could really help the tributes from here. My win was only two years ago this summer. The experience is still fresh. Who says 1 is the only district that can have consecutive wins? Together, Mags and I will bring home winners by the boatload.

He’s been watching me mull it over. “Every mentor fails at one point, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I just want to help,” I say earnestly, and the idea starts to take root in my mind. “There are children who could really benefit from training with me.”

Snow nods again. “And say you lose your taste for mentoring in a few years. If you’ve managed to bring a tribute home, they could take the job. A number of mentors in the past have started businesses in their own districts, and passed the torch to the new winners. Sooner or later, everyone is replaced.”

 _It wouldn’t even be a lifetime commitment_. All my previous worries slip away in that instant.

“I’ll do it,” I decide, extending my hand. We shake on it, then I rise to leave.

“I’m not quite finished,” Snow says, and I sit. _There’s more?_

“I’m sure you won’t be surprised to know that you’re still popular in the Capitol.”

“Still?” I laugh. “Septima really did her job, then.”

The president smiles again, exposing his teeth. I watch as he pulls a thick envelope from inside his jacket. Snow hands it to me. It has my name on it, written in an elegant script.

I slit the packaging open with my finger and let the contents slide out.

At first, I don’t see why he’s giving me with these. Emilia and my mother would benefit the most from photographs, seeing as they redecorated most of this house. But after studying the pictures for a few moments, my stomach plummets to my feet.

These photographs aren’t decorations. They are high definition, digital captures of my family and other people I care about in their daily lives. But the sick thing is, none of the subjects appeared to notice they were being watched.

My parents dancing in the kitchen. Lucia and Erik stealing a kiss while Ariadne sleeps between them. Emilia tending to her plants. Owen standing on his head at recess. Phoebe with her nose in a book. Mags and her knitting needles. Holly’s family and their hyacinths. Cordelia sketching a new building, glasses sliding down her nose.

All private, ordinary moments. My hands begin to shake.

“What the hell is this?”

“You,” he explains. “I must admit, I didn’t know what to make of you at first. Then I realized I was overthinking it.”

I start to protest, but he holds up his hand.

“Everyone has a weakness, even victors,” says the president, leaning back in the chair. “I didn’t even have to know you personally. Your weakness _is_ weakness.”

I scoff. “What does that mean?”

“You can’t help yourself,” he says quietly. “When something is broken, you want to fix it. When someone else is helpless, you rise to the occasion. Even the other tributes—ones who would kill you without so much as a second glance—you felt bad for them in the end.”

“So?”

“So, let’s say your family was in danger. Would you do anything to save them?”

“I already agreed to be mentor, you don’t have to threaten them. I said yes. What else do you want?”

“I want your word,” he says simply. “You’ll do what I say, _whatever_ I say, and I’ll leave your family and the others in peace.”

Enraged, I rip the photos to shreds before him. His expression doesn’t change, save for one eyebrow rising skeptically.

“What do you _want_?”

It’s four words, but enough to renew his interest. “A number of your sponsors—as well as other citizens in the Capitol—were very disappointed to see you go. Many wish to see you return on a regular basis.”

“I’ll return when I mentor, isn’t that enough?”

“No. They want you outside of the Games. After hours. They want _you_ and your undivided attention. Most of all, they’re willing to pay a lot of money for it.”

The implication of his words takes a few moments to sink in. There is no inflection in his voice, no hint of what I could be facing. But when I do understand, I realize that the Careers were never my true enemy in the Games.

No, the real enemy was the snake. The snake had no hidden desires, no personal grudges. No, the snake was just behaving as animals do. It was hungry, and searched for prey. Though I killed him, he’s come back for revenge. Snow, with his soundless tread, his opulent lifestyle—he’s the snake. He’s hunted me down. I’m his meal ticket; he needs me to sate his own habits. The other Capitol citizens support him. Now I must do the same.

“You had Osric killed for this,” I choke out. “You killed him so I could take the job. ‘Sooner or later, everyone is replaced.’ That was your plan all along, wasn’t it?”

Snow doesn’t deny the charge. He tilts his head, studying me again. I half-expect a forked tongue to dart out of his lips.

“Very astute,” he repeats, only this time, it feels hollow. I don’t want his praise. I want him dead. My eyes flicker around the room, looking for a weapon. Then I remember my own strength. I can weave my fingers into his hair and smash his face into that desk until his brain pops out. I feel myself rising.

“It might interest you to know that if I don’t leave this room in . . . ” He checks his watch. “Ten minutes, Peacekeepers all over 4 have standing orders to execute anyone with the name Odair, Fairlead, or Marston before the night is out.”

Bile rises in my throat. “Don’t you touch them.”

“Then do as I say. Mentor the Games this year, go to the Capitol—”

“And fuck the people who can pay you for it,” I say angrily. “Fine. I’ll do it.”

“Then we have a deal.”

He extends his hand, almost of a mockery of the handshake we did only minutes ago.

“Someday, you’ll lose everything,” I smile; it’s bitter. “And it will be the greatest day of my life.”

His grip is like iron, but he smiles, too. “Careful, now. That’s treason.”

The president heads for the door. I won’t allow myself another outburst, so I fist my hands at my sides. When the door clicks shut, I run to the window. From there, I watch his car drive away, the lights fading into the night.

My family is waiting for me in the living room; I can’t go to pieces until later. I smother the pain, stomp on it, stowing it away for another time. _Not now_. No, now I have to smile. I remember how to do that, my smile is irresistible.

I gag on those words, but my stomach twists in actual pain. I lift myself onto the windowsill and vomit into the bushes below. My eyes burn at the effort, and a groan tumbles out of my throat. Emotional pain might be easy to bury; actual revulsion is not.

Someone knocks on the door. “Finnick?”

I wipe my mouth and dive for the pictures. I didn’t realize how many pieces of them there were after I ripped them up; I shove them all in my pocket.

Phoebe is standing in the hall, looking worried. “Are you all right? The president left in a bit of a hurry.”

“I’m fine,” I say quickly. “He’s a busy guy, leading the country and all.”

She hooks our arms together and we walk toward the living room. My stomach does a pair of nervous flops and I’m afraid of throwing up again. Reluctantly, I withdraw my hand from hers.

“What did he want?” Emilia singsongs. Behind her, I see Thomas playing with her hair.

“He, uh . . . ” I feel like Peacekeeper Mortimer is punching me in the gut. “He asked me to mentor. I said yes.”

My family is happy on my behalf, but I inch toward the door. My smile feels as fragile as glass. “I’m going to go tell Mags the good news.”

As soon as I’m out the door, my grin, forced and all, shatters into a million pieces. I see lights down the road and know Mags is home. I knock at her door frantically, knowing that the outburst I attempted to bury is only minutes away.

It only takes one look at me for her to understand. Thinking back, I wonder if she had guessed this all along. I hadn’t made the connection between Osric and Snow, but it appears she did. The executive order to stop my trial? That was Snow’s way of putting me in his pocket. Now I owe him.

Technically, I owe him my life. And now he’s come to collect.

Mags pulls me inside, leading me to the bathroom. She turns on the tub and I submerge my head under the gush of water. From there, she presses a hand to the middle of my shoulders and moves it in a circle, like a mother comforting her child.

I don’t cry very often. Maybe a few times when I was young. When Lucia married Erik and I was the best man. When Owen was born, only a week after my ninth birthday. Almost, when Holly died.

But I was wrong. They take everything. I can be bought and sold like chattel. Nothing more than the fresh fish we ship to the city. And no one can raise a finger against Snow. Who would believe me?

“I should have said something,” Mags says after I shut the water off. I stare into the drain, my chin pressed to the smooth surface of the bathtub.

“I wouldn’t have believed you.”

She tugs the back of my shirt and I sit up. Mags guides my head to her lap and strokes the soaked hair. “I didn’t think it would happen to you. I thought another tribute might come along and outshine your victory, but it never happened.”

My eyes flicker up to meet hers. “Did you—”

Mags shakes her head. “No, Snow started that a few years into his term. I was already married with babes of my own . . . no, there were others that the Capitol wanted. I was too old for it.”

“How does he choose them?”

“He doesn’t, boy,” she says sadly. “The people around him do that. He’s just giving them what they want.”

“He’s a pimp,” I say furiously. “It’s not fair.”

“I’m sorry.”

We link hands. Hers are gnarled and weathered; mine rough and callused. I can’t stay here all night, but the thought of going home in this state is out of the question. For now we’re content to sit here, two lone fish without a school.

———

I wake up on Reaping Day with a renewed sense of dread.

In the weeks after Snow’s departure, I spent more time with Mags than ever. My family chalked it up to nerves about the mentorship. I could tell a few of them—namely Owen and Phoebe—were hurt by my distance. I hated pushing them away, but I knew the truth would hurt them all the more.

Snow hadn’t been very clear with the rules of my new position, but I know better than to tell my family about it. Anyone, in fact. The only one privy to the secret is Mags, seeing as she had witnessed it at before.

I dress for the day slowly, as I did last year. Though the previous Reaping was special for me, today is different. Today will seal my fate forever.

The word makes me freeze. How _long_ will this arrangement go on for? Will I be forced to do this over and over, until I’m old and gray? Will Snow ever let me age? I’ll always be the boy with the trident, pliable, youthful, infanticized. Perhaps the Capitol will design a surgery to keep me young and handsome until my death—isn't that what they want?

I dress in black, despite the heat. There’s no dress code that I’m aware of. No, I wear it to be defiant, at least in my own way. Either way, I’m distinctive.

When we reach the square, I bid my family goodbye. They are smiling at me, so proud. I want to cry. I don’t feel like one of them anymore. But I can’t let them see. The pain isn’t theirs, it’s mine. I flash them all a bright smile and wave, darting into the crowd.

It parts for me immediately, and I know my wardrobe choice must play a part. I’m a stingray admist a sea of angelfish. Dark and deadly. I ascend the stairs, nodding at the mayor. He smiles at me. Mags has an empty place beside her; I slide into the chair and we grasp hands.

Septima bounces forward, dressed sharply in shades of green. Her hair is still blue, still carefully styled. A sudden, violent wave of hatred washes over me. Though she hasn’t done me wrong, I hate everything she stands for.

The Reaping begins; I’m tense in my chair. Despite Grant, Peter, and James being safe this year, there are other Odairs, other Fairleads, and Marstons, too. I could throw a net over my family and not capture them all.

I know in that moment that Snow was right. I’ve been very naive. My weakness was plainly evident from my Reaping Day. I took Owen with me to the stage, unknowingly providing the president with leverage. I’d rather die than see my family in danger, and he knew I’d do anything to prevent it. Anything to protect them.

The tributes are Olivia Swift, a tall girl of fifteen, and Nathan Rowe, a lanky but strong sixteen year old. My relief is tainted with guilt; though no one of my family was selected, I feel awful for these two tributes. I know what awaits them.

I do my best to be reassuring. When Nathan catches my eye, I smile. We’re the same age. We were in the same class. He was never a friend of mine, but we knew each other.

 _Know each other_ , I correct myself. _I’m already talking about him in the past tense._

———

The train ride is mostly uneventful. Mags takes Olivia while Nathan comes to me. I pour him a glass of water and we sit by the window.

“Well?”

He sips. “I’m pretty good with spears. Better at hand-to-hand combat. Decent with knife throwing.”

 _You’re dead_ , I want to say, but I don’t. Instead, I start outlining a battle strategy. Both Mags and I agreed beforehand that our tributes should avoid the Careers at all cost. No, it’d be best if they concentrate on their own skills, team up if they have to, but in no way allow 1 and 2 within throwing range.

———

While Olivia and Nathan are seized by the prep teams and dragged away, I meet with Mathias. A geniune smile creeps onto my face. Overwhelmed, I pull him into a quick hug.

“I knew we’d meet again,” he says, imitating my victor’s interview with Caesar. I punch his arm.

“So, what have you got planned this year?”

While we peruse over his sketches, Mathias clears his throat. I look up.

“Finnick, I’ve been . . . ” he pauses. “I’ve been promoted.”

“Congratulations,” I beam. “That’s excellent! To what?”

“Your stylist. Permanently.”

 _Of course, I need to look pretty for my clients._ “Oh?”

“It’s strange, because I didn’t realize mentors _needed_ stylists,” he prods. I don’t take the bait. I’m a clever fish. Instead, I give him a camera smile, one made just for the Capitol.

“You know I need a whole team to look this good,” I chuckle, knowing that my makeover will occur in a few mintutes. Mags whispered the news before we pulled into the station.

“Right.”

I turn away from him. When it’s my turn, I focus on Halla’s chirpy voice instead of the suspicious gaze of my friend.

———

Our tributes are fresh and dazzling for the City Circle. I take my seat with Mags and avoid Mathias. I’m afraid he knows something. He’s smart, he’ll put the pieces together. Hopefully, he’ll understand my need for discretion and let it rest.

After Olivia and Nathan are carted off to bed, an Avox beckons me, envelope in hand. I recognize the elegant script and resist the urge to bolt. Instead, I find a quiet place and sit down.

_Dear Finnick,_

_Congratulations! This evening, you’ve been awarded to Andromeda Cross. Please see the enclosed address for directions._

_Formally,_

_President Coriolanus Snow_

“Awarded,” I sneer, shoving the letter in my pocket. “How nice.”

Mags has already left to negotiate with sponsors. I know I should be contributing, but I’m sure she went without me on purpose. Smart as a whip, that one.

I walk like the condemned until I find a taxi. The buildings whiz by the window; I’m suddenly reminded of Cordelia and her sleek apartment, designed by her own hands. Something inside me recoils. What would she think of me now?

Andromeda Cross lives quite lavishly. This part of the Capitol is dominated by large, mansion-style homes, very much like Snow’s own house. I take a long breath to steady myself, then knock on the door.

An unseen voice calls, “Come in!”

Inside, her house is littered with gaudy paintings, furniture, and trinkets. I stand in the doorway for a moment, but see no one. I wander into her parlor. _She must be getting ready. Am I ready?_

 _No_ , I think desperately. I’m not ready to do this. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and cringe. When did this become acceptable? When did I transition from child to adult? Where did the boy with the trident run off to?

The truth is that I never did transition. I am still a child, and the boy with the trident, that triumphant, relieved victor . . . he’s gone. I’m a shadow of that golden champion. And all of this is wrong.

“Pour us both glass of wine, will you?”

I turn; the woman standing there must be Andromeda. Her hair is blacker than ink, with a single streak of blue at her right ear. Her blue skin is smooth and perfect. No Capitol woman would be caught dead with wrinkles. This makes her age difficult to determine. Thinking about how old she is makes me think how _young_ I am, so I don’t. It’d be best if I don’t think at all.

Instead of gawking, I hasten to do what she asked. Before me is a tray with a bottle and two glasses. I pour the blood-red liquid into one of them and hand it to her, letting our fingers brush. She shivers with delight.

“Go on, drink up,” she giggles, so I do. I tip the glass and swallow the sour taste. A few sips later and I feel relieved when my head starts to spin. Perhaps I can get through this evening drunk.

The phone rings, and she groans. Andromeda tells me to make myself at home. I wait until she’s disappeared from the room to get up and take in my surroundings.

Two expansive bookshelves loom before me. Fear forgotten, I tilt my head to read the titles. To my shock, I realize that she owns some of the same books as I do. Almost all of them are about the gods and goddesses of civilizations past.

“You’re a quiet one,” Andromeda purrs, startling me. I laugh to cover my anxiety. It sounds horribly high-pitched and frightened. I hasten to collect myself. The lives of those I love are on the line here; my performance must be flawless.

“I apologize, Miss Cross. I was just examining your books.”

“Oh, please, call me Andromeda!” she trills. “And yes, I simply _had_ to read these after your victory. They were in high demand when your stylist revealed his inspiration.”

I force a smile. “Is that so?”

She takes the wine glass from my hand and walks forward; I walk backward. She brings her hands to my shoulders, lacing her fingers at the nape of my neck. The shelves dig into my spine.

“Don’t be nervous, dear,” she coos at me. “Have you ever done this before?”

“Once,” I lie, knowing that she’d like that. She wants inexperience; she wants to leave her mark on me. Cordelia had been my first, then there were other girls after my Victory Tour. I’m grateful for each and every woman, because even if our meetings were not meant to last, Andromeda couldn’t hold a candle to any of them. She bought me; I have no choice.

“Oh, it was probably some gossipy fishwife!”

“Yes,” I grin. “A rather bad precedent, I’m afraid. Though I’m sure you’re much better.”

“Quite,” she whispers, then kisses me. I keep my eyes open. When she pulls away, her own are twinkling. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”

I fumble for a moment. “Should I?”

Playfully, she strokes my cheek. I’m still as stone as she tilts my chin this way and that, as if examining a work of art. “I sent you the trident, silly boy.”

I feel as if ice water was injected in my veins. Somehow, my voice sounds flirtatious, not terrified. “That was _you_?”

“Oh yes,” she breathes, kissing me again. “I wanted to have it back after the Games, but then I thought, why would I keep the trident when I could have the man wielding it?”

 _I’m not a man yet_. “You saved my life. I’m in your debt.”

“Then make it up to me,” she commands, dragging me out of the parlor.

I glance back at the bookshelves and pray to Neptune, if he’s listening, to grant me strength. I just hope it’s enough.


	5. Chapter 5

I stumble down the streets of the Capitol come morning. I blink. It’s dawn, though the streets are already bustling with life. Perhaps they never went to bed, due to Games celebrations that take place at this time.

I don’t want to go back to the Training Center just yet, so I wander to an address booth and wrestle my way inside. My hands tremble with the effort, but I type in the words _Mathias Leroye, stylist._

The computer hums and spits out an address for me, neatly typed on a sheet of paper. I hand this to the first taxi I see, and close my eyes until we get there.

I know he’ll probably be at the Training Center, working around the clock on his designs. I just want a moment alone, without the hidden cameras and microphones. The last thing I need is Snow listening in on my private meltdown.

The door is ajar; I press against it, listening.

“Did you see the designs Arduin was passing around? She’s dressing the Ten tributes as oxen.”

“Well, the boy looks like one.”

Not only is Mathias home, but he has a guest. I start to slump, knowing I’ll have to go back to the Training Center. Unfortunately, my foot catches on the door and it swings backward, sending me flying to the floor. I manage to catch the doorknob on my way down, but also the attention of my stylist and his visitor.

“Finnick?”

“I didn’t realize you were entertaining,” I mumble.

Mathias pulls me to my feet. “Come in, please.”

While he steers me into the kitchen, I study his guest. Like Mathias, he’s dressed rather simply. Green eyes flecked with gold. Eyeliner to match. Brown hair. He smiles at me uncertainly.

Mathias plops me down in a chair. I pull my gaze from the other man and stare at my feet. My stylist shoves a glass of water toward me and I gulp it down.

“Finnick, this is my apprentice, Cinna.”

“Hello,” I say to the floor. “I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted something.”

“Cinna, why don’t we pick this up at the Training Center? I need to speak with Finnick alone.”

“Of course,” Cinna replies. From the position of his feet, I can tell he’s looking at me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Finnick.”

I manage a nod. It’s rude, but I’m in no mood for manners. When the door closes behind him, Mathias seizes my shoulders.

“Where were you?” From the tone of his voice, I know he expects an answer.

I swallow. “Is it safe here?”

He’s puzzled for a minute. “Yes?”

I barely move my lips. “No microphones?”

He shakes his head. Still, my words are barely above a whisper. I tell him that Snow sold me. I tell him that my family dies if my clients aren’t pleased. I tell him that Andromeda Cross scratched my back and bit my neck like a dog in heat. She howled like one, too. I tell him I’m clinging to my smile by my fingertips, and if I have to do this again I’ll strangle Snow with my bare hands.

Mathias brings me to the bathroom and turns on the shower. Mags did the same back home in 4, and I suddenly wish she was here with us.

I feel dirty, just a vessel for someone to use and toss aside. My family means everything to me, and I’ll do anything for them, in a heartbeat. No question. But I can’t help but resent them, even a little, for never knowing what I’ve done, and what I’ll do.

The two of us climb in together and sit, my left shoulder to his right. We ruin our clothes by sitting in the stream of water, but we don’t care at this point. He sits quietly with me while horrible, strangled cries tumble out of my throat. The boy with the trident wouldn’t cry. But he’s gone now, and the person he left behind—me—is fractured and frightened and sad.

“I don’t know why I can’t stop,” I say when he shuts the water off.

“I think it helps,” Mathias replies softly. “You’ve been abused, Finnick.”

“And he expects me to smile and accept it,” I continue, and I’m taken aback by how flat my voice sounds. I have no energy for charms today. “A dog he gets to kick around. I’m nothing.”

Mathias stiffens. “You’re not _nothing_. If he’s already made you think like that, you’ve let him win.”

“What do I do?”

He tilts his head back against the tile. “Wait. It might take months. Years, even. Do what he says, smile when he asks, but wait like he waited for you. Even a snake can be thwarted.”

While Mathias hunts for dry clothes, I’m tasked with making breakfast. My stylist barely touches his food, but I eat it all, ravenous. Finally, when I help with the dishes, he blurts out a series of unintelligible phrases.

“What?”

“I’m sorry,” he stammers, and it’s radically different from his typically mild behavior. “I should have realized that something _this_ would happen. I helped create that stage persona. The boy with the trident idea was part of my design. If you’re going to blame someone, blame me.”

“No,” I say firmly, stilling his hands. The plate he’s holding slides back into the sudsy water. “I’ll always blame Snow. Never you. Do you know how much you mean to me? I will _never_ blame you, Mathias.”

He squeezes my hand. “You mean a lot to me, too.”

We regard one another, smiling, then turn back to the dishes. I realize he’s made me forget about Andromeda for over an hour and resolve to work harder. I won’t let Snow win. I’m not nothing.

———

By the time I return to the Training Center, Mags and our tributes are just settling down to breakfast. My old mentor eyes me warily. She knows where I was last night, but can’t mention about it in front of Olivia and Nathan. I incline my head. _Later._

“As I was saying,” Mags continues. “Avoid the Careers during training.”

“Won’t they go after us if we do that?”

“They’ll think you two have formed an alliance,” I explain, finding my voice. “Which is entirely at your discretion. However, given last year’s results . . . I wouldn’t go near them.”

I know we’re all thinking of 4’s tributes in the past Games, butchered in the Bloodbath by the other Careers. This strategy must go against everything they have ever trained for. But Mags and I are sticking to it, and if they want to win, they will, too.

The next few days blend together. While our tributes train, Mags and I consult the pool of sponsors. Despite 4’s great loss last year, my name is more than enough to get us by. Many of them are eager to do business with us, though by the rules, we must wait until the training scores are posted.

Our pair does well—Olivia earns herself a 7, while Nathan hooks an 8. “Respectable,” I tell them. “Very good.”

“But you got a _ten_ ,” Nathan groans as I walk him back to his room. “That’s two away from twelve.”

“Eight is four away from twelve,” I chuckle. “No use in haggling over it. Besides, Mags and I have been up to our ears in sponsors. Don’t worry.”

He eyes me for a moment, leaning on the door. “People still talk about you. In school, I mean. The girl, the snake, the trident. It all meant something, right?”

We’re the same age, but right now, I feel years older. “To the audience, mostly. To me . . . well, I’m still working that out.”

“Goodnight, Finnick.”

“Night.”

I bid goodbye to Mags later on, clutching the address of my third client. The second was a woman named Licinia, who I entertained last night. Apparently, I’m off to a good start. Snow sent me a personal letter of congratulations, which I promptly burned. It’s the only _fuck off_ I can afford.

Finally, the night of the interviews arrives. Though Nathan pretends otherwise, I know he’s nervous. I do my best to be reassuring, and he seems to buy it.

Olivia is pretty and coy; Nathan is brash but endearing. From my spot in the mentor’s section, I can hear a few members of the audience saying that the best-looking people come out of 4. I’m sure my colleagues—namely Cashmere and Gloss—aren’t too happy about that.

My patron that evening is a man named Axion, who in comparion, makes Andromeda Cross seem like a kitten. When I stumble into the control room the next morning, Cecilia from 8 flies to my side immediately.

“Did you get into a fight?”

“No. And don’t worry about me, you have your own child to mind,” I smile, glancing at her belly, though she’s only a few months along.

“Not yet,” she says impatiently, tilting my head. The other mentors are staring; my face reddens. No one will take me seriously if another mentor is fussing over a few cuts and bruises.

“You look like you crossed paths with a feral cat,” Gloss grins, tossing his headset into the air.

“He probably had a date,” his sister smiles, and they share identical expressions of malice. I want to smash their heads together.

“I did, actually,” I snap, angered by their easy dismissal. Instead of being focused on the Games, I’m nursing superficial injuries from half a beast. What little confidence Mathias was able to give me the other day is gone; I feel as downtrodden and empty as before. “He was very pleased.”

“He? He who?”

“Axion something,” I mutter. Astonished, I watch the smiles slide off their faces. Cecilia’s hand goes to her mouth, and I see tears in her eyes. Warning bells go off in my mind.

“You . . . ” she gulps. “Have you had other . . . dates?”

I flinch. “No one of consequence.”

“ _Finnick_ —”

“What would you have me do?”

This arrangement is clearly old news, because Cecilia is dancing very close to the truth. Based on Chaff’s expression, there are victors like me in this room. Victors with everything to lose. Victors who smile because they have to, victors with everything. We won, but we lost, too.

“It’s not _fair_ ,” she whispers. “You’re just a boy.”

I wonder if Snow ever propositioned her, though I doubt it. Cecilia would be considered pretty in any district, but in the Capitol, she’s plain. She cares about my well being enough to commit treason, and I can’t even thank her for it.

“Just leave it alone,” I mumble, brushing past her and into the aisle. When I reach 12’s couch, Haymitch is prepared to drink a tall glass of beer. I snatch it out of his hands and tip my head back, chugging without a break. Even for him, that’s a feat. Before he can protest, I hand him a bag full of coins.

“Start a round on me.”

Mags says nothing when I order a drink for myself. Her silence is the most telling; she doesn’t approve. _I_ don’t approve of what I’m doing; drinking won’t wash the feelings away. But it does dull them, for the moment, so I keep the alcohol flowing.

The chatter dies down as the countdown begins. When the camera flickers to my tributes, both are holding up well. The arena is a forest, bleached white with endless mounds of snow. Each contestant is equipped with fur-lined parkas and thick boots. The path to the Cornucopia is blessedly clear.

When the gong sounds, those who have adapted to the chill race to the horn. The smaller tributes, even with the parkas, are battered about by the wind. They simply don’t weigh enough to combat the cold.

The Bloodbath begins during a light snowfall. Tributes are blinded by it, and Mags inhales sharply. In the brief flashes of the arena, we see 4’s contestants are hotly pursued.

My throat seems to close at the sight. Olivia and Nathan follow our instructions; they grab what they could, do not engage in the fighting, and flee the Cornucopia. Nathan is successful; Olivia is not.

Her blood stains the snow, spurting out of her forehead. Whoever threw the mace was merciful; her death is instantaneous. However, the pain of failure is a slow burn. I see Mags slump a little, reaching for my hand. I squeeze back, expressionless.

Later that night, I insist that Mags be the one to take the first break. Before her stroke, she slept little and had more endurance. Even though she grumbles about it, I can tell she’s weary. The control room empties out for the evening; thankfully, I don’t have a client lined up.

People in the districts idolize mentors for their experience. This is another hard lesson learned—there is nothing exciting about being a mentor. We may have sponsor support, but two lives depend on us, and in the end, there is one winner. One victor.

I shouldn’t have expected any less—the Games are cruel for everyone involved. The only consolation is that I’ll be home soon. The thought makes me cringe. I’ll return to 4 with two bodies—one of them kicking, if I’m lucky. And that’s a big _if_ , because the Careers are thirsty for 4’s blood.

I reach for my drink again. Haymitch may be a drunkard, but his methods are marvelous. The liquor is bitter, but the ignorance is bliss.


	6. Chapter 6

Nine tributes die in the Bloodbath. Two more drop dead of frostbite. By nightfall, a Career pack is on the move. It’s a small group this year; the tributes from 1 and 2 have scant competition.

Nathan finds a cave to stay in for the night. I’m proud of him. He managed to find a sleeping bag in the Cornucopia, and combined with his parka, sleeps warmly. The layer of ferns in front of the cave entrance also help his case. My only concern for him now are bears, who won’t take lightly to him staying in their den. But he did grab a sword, so I’m not worried.

Since my remaining tribute is safe, I find no issue in drinking again. Haymitch and Chaff have been doing it all day long. All four of their tributes are dead, so there’s only one reason for them to still be here.

“Pretty Boy, come over here,” Haymitch slurs. “I’ve spent so much of your money.”

I sit down next to him. “At least someone’s spending it.”

“Did you really sleep with Axion?” Chaff demands. Apparently I’m not the only embarrassing drunk.

I down the rest of my glass. “Yes.”

“He made a pass at me once,” he informs me. “But the hand scared him off.”

“The stump, you mean.”

He and Haymitch burst into drunken laughter. “You’re funny!”

We order another round and start a drinking game. Twenty minutes into it, someone clears his throat. All three of us look up and to find Brutus, the legendary tribute from 2. During his Games, he found one spear during the Bloodbath. It was all over in two days.

“Could you keep it down?” he growls.

I stand up, then wobble for a moment. “We’re just trying to have fun. Besides, everyone’s sleeping, even your precious Peacekeeper brats from 2.”

“What did you say, boy?”

My experience with alcohol, in any stage of my life, has been awful. Stupid decisions feel like smart ones. So when I suckerpunch Brutus, the Brutus, it seemed like a perfectly logical thing to do.

Haymitch and Chaff howl with laughter, sloshing drinks all over themselves. I stand there with my fist outstretched, amazed that I managed to knock down one of the most lethal victors in Panem’s history.

Of course, I don’t think about him coming back at me. The man is a mountain, and when his hand collides with my face, I see stars. Then everything goes black.

———

When I awaken, my vision is blurry. I’m horizontal, strapped to a bed with clinical, white restraints. Dimly, I realize I must be in a medical ward. Someone is standing vigil by my bedside. I can’t quite make him out.

“What a memorable evening you’ve had, Mr. Odair.”

It’s as if someone has splashed cold water on my face. I know that voice, and it will haunt me to my grave. As his face sharpens, I find my voice. “Mr. President.”

Snow smooths away a wrinkle on his suit. He barely looks at me. “I must admit I was surprised to hear Finnick Odair started a drunken brawl in the control room of _all_ places. Surely he understands that such behavior will not be tolerated.”

“Sir, I—”

“Acted foolishly, made a mistake, yes, I’ve heard them all,” he says dismissively. “I hope you realize you’ve created a financial disaster.”

“They don’t want me?” I whisper, trying not to picture dozens of graves with the name Odair.

“Not bruised and bloody, no,” the president says coolly. “Fortunately for you, both of your tributes are dead, so your presence in the city is no longer required. However, next year, there will be no similar incidents. Am I making myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble, though something he said lingers more than the others. “Wait, _both_ tributes? But—”

Snow reaches for the television remote. It’s mounted on the wall, far away from my reach. “Not yet, it seems.”

With that, he sweeps out of the room. I lay still, horrified. Is Nathan’s death a deliberate form of punishment on my part? Is it another lesson learned, knowing that my actions in the control room prevented me from protecting him? My stomach plummets to the floor. Either way, I am at fault.

There’s nothing to do but watch. Nathan looks well-rested this morning, but hungry. The sword he stole will come in handy, or so he thinks. The heart monitor next to the bed starts beeping like mad, but I am transfixed. I know what will happen before he does.

The Careers pounce as he exits the cave, beating and stabbing and howling. Their sponsors have given them with heat-sensitive glasses, which allows the group to track humans or animals by body temperature. I turn my head away from the screen like a coward, but it’s no use. Snow wanted me to see this. It’s a warning. It’s my fault.

Finally, the cannon fires. Something inside me recoils at the sight of Nathan’s body, his sightless blue eyes. Only days ago he was at my side, discussing training scores.

He was my age. I knew him. I failed him. And now he’s dead.

Cecelia stops by an hour later. She has real food for me, not the manufactured Capitol slop they feed the patients. She sinks into the chair Snow vacated and says nothing.

“I’m sorry,” I tell her, embarrassed about the previous evening.

She leans forward to stroke my hair. “You just can’t keep out of trouble.”

“No, ma’am.”

“At least you can go home now,” she sighs. “Leave all this for a whole year.”

“What about you?”

Cecelia smiles. “I have one tribute left—the girl. Holly seems to have left an impression on the children in Eight.”

“Good.”

We eat in silence. After we’ve finished, we talk about our families and hobbies. It’s a nice escape.

“I may not see you next year, with the child and all,” she says when she’s about to leave. “But just know . . . ” Cecelia pauses. “Just know you’re not alone. You’re not nothing.”

She talked to Mathias. My heart swells with this secret. Despite Snow’s treatment of me, whatever he has me do—I have people standing at my side. Mags, Mathias, Cecelia . . . they are a surrogate family. They know, they care, they want to help me. And I am grateful.

Mags and my stylist arrive at sunset to take me to the train. Neither press me to talk. Mathias hugs me tightly before I step off the platform, and says he’ll call my house soon. When the train pulls away from the station, I lean against the window.

“Do you feel like this every year, Mags?”

She pulls me to the dining car. “The arena forces you to make choices. I’m still making them every year I mentor. You’ve made your own choices, and they weren’t easy. I won’t pretend to know how you’re coping.”

After dinner, I go to my quarters and start working. I ran a few errands before I left the Capitol. By now, Brutus will be receiving a note (I’m buying you a drink next year) and Cecelia will find a single hyacinth in her room.

I bought two rolls of thread, the finest I could find. Sky blue and a mottled green, both colors familiar to 4. It takes all night, but I manage to weave an _O_ in the green, and an _N_ in the blue.

When someone dies in 4, close family and friends weave the deceased’s initials, which are placed on the body. It’s our way of saying goodbye.

I am not a close friend to either family, but it seems prudent for me to do this. The weight in my chest lessens slightly when I’m finished. I may have failed my tributes in life, but I will respect them in death.

By the time the train arrives, it is dusk. As we step off the platform, Mags asks me to stop by later, if I want. I clutch the knotted threads in my pocket, breathing hard.

As it turns out, I only have to make one stop. Both families have congregated at Nathan’s house, mourning their children together.

“I . . . ” My throat closes at the sight of their scrutiny. “I’m . . . I’m so sorry.”

I keep my eyes to the floor and give my threads to the mothers. It will never make up for their losses, but it seems like the only way for me to truly apologize. All four of them reach for me, squeezing my shoulders, hugging me, thanking me. I don’t deserve any of it.

They insist I stay for dinner. I wish Mags was here. I force a smile through their anecdotes about their children, but I can feel my shame ebbing back.

It takes everything I have to stumble home and fall into bed. Mags will understand I need this time to decompress. I find it’s like laying in a bed of nails; no matter which way I turn, I feel pain. I wish I went out to Victoria instead, but the thought of it makes me recoil. I bought the ship with Capitol money; I won’t sleep there.

When I wake up the next morning, I find Phoebe curled up against my chest. She has her arm around a book, the fingers loose. She’s also hogged half the blanket. The soft heartbeat against my back must be Owen; I peek. It is. He’s wearing a pair of my ratty old shorts, to my sister’s chagrin, no doubt. Lucia and Emilia like the Odairs clothed to reflect our status, but most of us (myself included) couldn’t care less.

Both of them are so entwined around me that moving around is impossible. I don’t mind. I’m content to lay still and pretend this year’s Games never happened. The sun rises, but neither of them stir. I watch its progress through the sky.

Ignoring the ache won’t make it go away; drinking doesn’t change a thing. I need a new outlet, but talking to anyone but Mags is too dangerous. It appears I’m condemned to stew in it for now. I think it’s a generous punishment for what I’ve done.

 _I’ll get through it_ , I think absently. _I’ve faced worse odds in my day._


	7. Chapter 7

To my disappointment, the ache won’t lessen. I don’t like dwelling on painful things—who does? I set on completing my new task—to find a distraction. I have a whole year until the Games call me away. A whole year to heal.

For many weeks, the task seems hopeless. I snap and snarl at everyone within an arm’s reach, then apologize up and down for days if I must. I know my family is desperately trying to keep up with my rapid mood swings; for their sake, I furiously throw all my effort into returning to routine.

I take Owen to school in the mornings, fish with my father until lunch, then wander for the rest of the evening. I comb through the district so much that I learn every corner of it. The Peacekeepers on patrol warm up to me—the ones who didn’t try to arrest me last year, at least.

I dress according to the weather, but even so, I often imagine awful words painted across my chest. Words that mark me for what I am—a victor in chains, a whore, a piece in Snow’s Games. Shame is my constant companion.

When I feel like this, I row out to _Victoria_. The sea and waves are usually enough to make me forget. Lately, it hasn’t been much comfort. The shipbuilders in 4 made it with my victor’s salary. That was before I knew what Capitol citizens _do_ with their money.

I slip into a deeper depression and feel I must take action. Any relief will do.

I choose the time of day carefully. The morning will be no good—fishermen are in the harbor, preparing to go out for the catch. They’ll see what I’ve done and sail over to help, which is exactly what I don’t want. After much deliberation, I decide on sunset. The majority of 4 will be going home for dinner. I won’t be seen until it’s too late.

I row out that afternoon with a fresh determination. I don’t want to harm myself—no, that would harm everyone I love. No, I want to tear my boat to pieces. I want to see that Capitol-financed ship at the bottom of the sea. It will not harm me there; I bought it with my winnings. I’m not a winner anymore; I’m in Snow’s pocket. I want to scrub every inch of the Capitol from my thoughts, and this is the first step.

A strange calm comes over me as I douse the deck with gasoline. The smell is sharp; it overpowers the salty air. I hoist the anchor, hoping _Victoria_ will crash. The thought makes me smile. Finally, with a mad sort of grin, I strike a match and toss it through the air.

The flames lick the decks greedily. I leap into the rowboat and slash the ropes, retreating to a safe distance. I laugh, and it sounds hollow. The rest of me hasn’t caught up yet; I’m enjoying the fire. The tiny twist of doubt is easy to ignore.

I row back with slow, even strokes. The fire fascinates me; I can’t take my eyes off it. Water has been my playground since birth, so heat and flame is a foreign thing to me. I’m sure other districts—1, 12—are used to fire, with their mining. I like it. It’s dangerous and unstoppable. I pass a sea mark, and it is as red as the flames.

“Red, right, return,” I murmur. Simple seamanship rules. I’m still thinking about those words when I see a head bob above the water.

 _A swimmer, this far out?_ Intrigued, I hold the oars and watch. We’re a daring stock in 4, but this is a bit extreme. The girl surfaces again at the buoy, a skinny arm reaching out to grasp the bar. She pulls herself up to sit, pulling a net along. Her dark brown hair is long; she brushes it out of her eyes impatiently.

Inexplicably, I’m reminded of one of the pictures in the books Mathias sent me. A woman emerging from the sea. My stomach does an odd kind of leap.

The net is full of wriggling, fresh fish. She smiles at her find, and I realize this is not a new occurrence, it’s a habit. I glance back at the burning ship behind me, then to the shore. There’s no way I’ll be able to row past her and go unnoticed.

“Er, hello?”

The girl flinches as if scalded and nearly slips off the buoy. She hangs on by her fingertips, clutching the net like a lifeline.

“Um, should you be out this far?”

Her green eyes narrow. “What’s it to you?”

“Nothing,” I retort, taken aback. “It’s just—well, it’s pretty late. Feeding hours.”

The girl glances warily toward the open sea. Proof appears in the form of a fin, circling not far from us. There isn’t a child in 4 who doesn’t know what that means. When our eyes meet again, I nod at her sizable bounty.

“You’re far from shore, and swimming with those behind you isn’t the best idea.”

Her tone is still icy, but I see a flicker of doubt in her eyes. “I didn’t realize how late it was . . . normally, I can get out here faster.”

I gesture toward the rowboat. “I can give you a lift, if you like.”

She hesitates; I can tell she doesn’t trust me, since I discovered her secret. Still, with the sun setting, she’s an easy target for predators. Finally, she nods. I maneuver the oars until the boat taps the sea mark. Reluctantly, the girl hands over the fish and clamors in after them.

She’s very pretty. I can’t help but stare, though she doesn’t want to look at me. Her dress is almost see through in the water, and a violent blush creeps down to her collarbones. I blink and focus on rowing.

I can’t help but be curious. “Why were you poaching?”

“Why did you burn that boat?”

 _Clever girl_. “Trade secret.”

She shrugs. “We barely scrape by at home—me and my dad. I do what I can to help.”

It’s my turn; I don’t want to share. But she confessed rather bravely to a complete stranger; it’s only fair.

I sigh. “That’s my boat I was burning.”

She smiles for the first time. “Going to buy a new one?”

I grin ruefully. “Nah, I just didn’t like the color.”

We’re about two minutes from the beach. Inadvertently, I’ve rowed toward the cliffs below the Victor’s Village. I start to turn east, but she stops me. “No, I started there. Keep going.”

We don’t speak until the boat is in the shallows. She leaps out and helps me tug it to the shore. When that’s done, she hoists the net onto one shoulder.

“Well . . . thank you.”

The girl walks slowly toward the rocks. Just beyond them, there’s a hill with path leading to the rest of the district. I blink, then dash after her. “Wait!”

“Hey,” I breathe when I catch up. “I can take you out there again tomorrow, if you want.”

“Why would you do that?”

I shrug. “Seems silly to risk your life every day.”

Her eyes flash. “Silly to someone who will never go hungry.”

I incline my head. “You’re right. I thought maybe . . . we could trade. You can forget about the boat, and I’ll forget about the poaching.”

The girl considers for a long moment. “I won’t tell anyone. But all right, thanks. We can meet here tomorrow.”

She walks away without another word. Her feet are bare, but she maneuvers the rocks with ease. _She’s done this before_ , I remind myself. _And probably learned to walk on barnacles and sea glass_. There’s a grace to her, though I doubt she notices or cares.

“What’s your name?”

I don’t expect her to answer me, so my eyebrows raise when she stops short. From here, I can see her smiling.

“Annie Cresta.”

———

I’m still thinking about Annie Cresta when I return home. As soon as I step in the door, no less than six Odair boys drag me to the beach. They think I don’t know about _Victoria_. Reluctantly, I join them. We swim to the burning wreckage, where several Peacekeeper vessels are trying to stamp out the blaze. But it’s too late. The mast, engulfed in red flames, crashes below the surface.

The Peacekeepers give us a lift back. My cousins are angry and frantic; some of them believe it was an attempt on my life. Others think it was a deliberate form of sabotage, perhaps motivated by my recent failure with Olivia and Nathan.

I don’t say anything. Guilt closes around me like a vice. My attempt to move on by violent means has only caused more pain, but not with me. The Odairs thought _I_ was on that ship; they thought someone tried to kill me. With my narrow escape from the Osric murder still fresh in their minds, it appears that someone in the district is targeting me. What they don’t realize is that I’m the one behind it.

My rash behavior has affected more than just me. I lean against James, who chuckles softly and allows me rest. Silently, I vow to never behave like that again. My quest for closure had serious consequences, and I won’t endanger my family for anything.

———

Annie Cresta is very confusing.

I wait until four o’clock the next day. It’s afternoon, but too early for sharks. When I get to the rocky beach below the Village cliffs, she’s already halfway to the buoy. Bewildered, I shove off from the beach and row hard to catch up.

“You’re late,” she informs me when the oars narrowly graze her arm. Annie climbs over the side and shakes out her hair, dousing me with water. “I’ve been waiting nearly an hour.”

“We didn’t—we didn’t agree on a time!” I sputter, still blinking salt from my eyes.

She shrugs. “Three o’clock, then.”

I row in silence, somewhat annoyed. Though that wears off quick when my curiosity returns. “You never asked for my name, you know.”

“Everyone knows your name,” Annie says. Her eyes are fixed on the red mark, floating merrily in the choppy water.

“What is it, then?”

Annie rolls her eyes, but permits a small smile to grace her lips. “Finnick Odair.”

I wait until we’ve collected the fish. “Well, I think proper introductions are in order.”

Amused, she thrusts her hand forward and shakes mine. “I’m Annie.”

“Hello Annie, I’m Finnick,” I grin. She laugh for a moment, then sobers.

“Why did you burn that boat? It was beautiful.”

I cut through the water so fast that we’re in the shallows in half the time. “I didn’t want it.”

“Didn’t want it, or didn’t want to see it anymore?”

I frown. “Both, I guess.”

“Why?”

I sit down on the sand, tossing both oars beside me. “I don’t know.”

Annie joins me. “You don’t know, or you don’t want to tell me?”

I scowl. “Can we change the subject, please?”

“I’ll leave you to your thoughts, then,” Annie announces, prancing away with her nose in the air. I can only assume she’s offended that I’m not being honest; however, we did only meet yesterday.

“Same time tomorrow?”

“All right,” she yells back, leaping from stone to stone. I watch her dash out of sight and laugh again, my irritation forgotten.

———

The next day, I make an effort to show up a little early. Surprisingly, Annie is already there. It appears she went for a swim, but waited for me. She smiles as I sit down.

“You’re early.”

I smile back. “Usually am.”

Annie rolls her eyes. “That remains to be seen. Mind if we sit here for a bit?”

“No, not at all.”

I expect her to keep the conversation going, but the quiet stretches on and on. It isn’t uncomfortable; actually, it’s nice. We watch the clouds race across the horizon, our feet digging into the sand.

“Annie, why do you need to come out here every day? What if the Peacekeepers catch you?”

“We don’t have enough,” Annie says wearily. I can tell she’s had this argument before. Not with me, but with friends, her father, perhaps a boyfriend. “My dad has a heart problem, he can only fish for so long in a day.”

“And your mother?”

“She’s dead,” Annie murmurs, and I don’t miss the hitch in her voice. “Four years ago. I was ten.”

I think back. Four years ago, I was twelve. My first Reaping. Annie was too young to compete, which means she would have been home with her parents. I wince. Ten is an impressionable age; I wonder, but don’t dare to ask, how it happened.

 _Cresta_ is a familiar name; I remember hearing about that death. A snitch of a conversation, discussed in quiet tones, away from the kids. I’m still mulling it over when Annie stands.

“Ready?” she says briskly, brushing sand off her dress. It’s the same white one from two days ago.

We’re halfway back to the beach before I speak again. “I’m sorry.”

Her eyes dart away, but not fast enough; I see tears. “Thank you.”

The wound is still fresh, it seems. I feel a trickle of shame go down my back. Small at first, but roaring in my ears before long. What’s been done to me is an injustice; what’s happened to her is a tragedy. Slowly, as it is with most people my age, I realize it’s actually not all about me.


End file.
